


Monstrous

by ScholarForChrist



Series: Lark and Wolf Writings [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Competent Jaskier | Dandelion, Epic Bromance, Feral Jaskier | Dandelion, Gen, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Needs a Hug, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier | Dandelion Saves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, No Slash, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-27
Updated: 2020-10-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:22:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 67,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25558780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScholarForChrist/pseuds/ScholarForChrist
Summary: "One slip, one little moment when he’d let his guard down, believed for just one second that someone in this miserable town didn’t immediately hate him, and now here he was, sitting beaten and filthy in the rain-soaked street while some stuck-up fool paraded around him like it was some act of great skill and bravery to swing a hammer at a man’s head when his back was turned."An easy hunt turns into a nightmare when Geralt is caught and tortured by a hateful village a full two weeks' journey from where he was supposed to meet up with Jaskier. Lots of villager-on-witcher violence, capable and feral Jaskier to the rescue, and some emotional breakdowns (and growth) along the way!Can be a continuation from Shadow of Death (in a nebulous pre-Ciri, post-mountain, Adventure Bros dimension) or standalone
Series: Lark and Wolf Writings [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1852129
Comments: 98
Kudos: 288





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Co-written with my sister, the Lark to my Wolf

It was refreshing to be on the move again, under gently swaying branches rather than musty stone halls. After months of wintering in Kaer Morhen, Geralt was headed steadily south, trading the heavy snowfalls of the mountains for their flurried foothills. For a time, he travelled in complete solitude, just him and Roach, edging ever closer to the small villages and towns that dotted the surrounding land. By the time they reached the larger part of the river that wound its way across the valley floor, the weather had transitioned from the flurries of late winter to the cold drizzle of oncoming spring, but the forest had not yet woken from winter’s heavy slumber save for the few bits of green in the grass at the road’s edge half buried under mud. 

He came across the rumors first, muttered between travellers who passed them on the road. Giant centipedes had been nesting in the forest nearby, for years, it seemed. While no one stopped him to offer the contract officially, preferring to cross to the other side of the road and pass him with suspicious glowers and the occasional curse, Geralt decided to track down the nest. 

“A little exercise never hurt,” he told Roach when she snorted at his guiding her off the path and into the deeper woods. “Maybe a village will be grateful to be rid of them, offer us some coin or a drink.” He tied her reins to a tree well out of sight of any travelers and not far enough into the wood to be targeted by the carnivorous insects. Drawing his sword, he tightened the straps of his armor and patted her cheek. “At the very least, it’ll be several monsters fewer in these parts. And that’s worth an hour or so of your patience, hmm?” Roach snuffled her agreement into a patch of grass and Geralt turned to the scattered trail of displaced underbrush and churned earth that trailed into the depths of the wood.

Geralt made short work of the creatures, finishing off the nest with a few hours to spare before dark. It was an old one, well established. The locals had probably had trouble for years, decades even, and it was a satisfying hunt to wipe them out and make one more small corner of this world a little safer. The heads were conveniently smaller than the wide sections of carapace that made up the monsters’ near-twenty foot long bodies and Geralt broke off the large pincers before packing the heads away in a sack and making his way back to the path with Roach. It wasn’t long before they came across a small mining village with little more than a smithy, tavern, and the homes of the workers and their families. Places like this could be unpredictable, local superstitions enhanced by their isolation and the close-knit community rarely welcomed strangers. This particular village was close enough to a trade route for travellers to be expected, but, going by the stares that followed him from the first muddy street through to the tavern, witchers weren’t their usual fare. 

There were so few witchers left that even here, so close to the place Geralt had been trained, one was likely a rare sighting. Probably because most preferred to skirt around smaller settlements like this, leave them to their superstitions and avoid the muttered insults spat on the ground at their feet. Geralt might have bypassed this place himself if it weren’t for the centipedes. 

He dismounted outside the tavern as the orange rays of sunset began to fade from the sky and led Roach the few steps further to a hitching post, frowning at the nervous energy in her flicking ears and uneasy steps.

“Just one drink,” he murmured to her. “Need to let someone here know the woods are safe around the fields now.” A glance at a passing miner’s suspicious scowl drew a sigh from Geralt’s lips. “Even if they do run us off for it,” he added, fastening Roach’s reins to the post. 

The sudden movement at the tavern’s cloudy windows didn’t escape him, but people tended to be skittish when he arrived; it came with the job. He gave Roach a reassuring pat and took the sack from her saddle, keeping the hood of his heavy cloak up as he entered. Geralt made for the bar, feeling the eyes of every patron burning on his back as he stood at the counter. 

The barkeep was an older man, steel-grey hair shaggy and unkempt. The lines dug deep into his brow suggested the sour glare he was currently wearing was his natural expression, worn into his face with daily repetition just like the wagon ruts in the street outside. 

“Do you have an alderman here?” Geralt queried, hoping he could bypass the average villager and go straight to the man in charge. It was unlikely any single inhabitant would have anything to offer him for his work, but if they’d elected an official mayor or leader of some sort, he’d have better luck there. 

“Oh, sure,” the man deadpanned, his tone mocking. “Didn’t you see the grand mansion down the road as you came in? Lives there. Has tea with Queen Calanthe every afternoon - you’ve just missed her.” There was a pause in which Geralt’s jaw tightened with annoyance and the barkeep eyed him. Then a lift of his chin indicated the weighted sack hanging in the witcher’s gloved hand. “What’s that?” 

Geralt considered him for a moment. No alderman likely meant no pay, which wasn’t a terrible loss on his part. A monster was slain and a village made that much safer. The supplies he’d brought from Kaer Morhen would last him some time without needing replacement or replenishing, so he had no real need for coin just yet. But still, someone should be told, and whether this man was the town’s authority, its idiot, or both, he’d be able to spread the word well enough. 

“Came across a giant centipede nest just north of here. Probably been feeding their young at your expense. I took care of them.” The barkeep raised a skeptical eyebrow at him, setting aside the mug he’d been cleaning and grunted. “I’ve collected the heads as proof.” Geralt rested the sack on the counter, undoing the rope holding it shut. “They’ll not be troubling you again.” The man leaned forward and took a cursory look into the bag; the sight twisted his mouth.

“So you’re here to squeeze what little coin we have into your purse, then, is it? Well, you can keep riding, witcher!” 

Geralt resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He hadn’t expected a warm welcome, but the hostility in the man’s tone suggested things could get messy should he push his luck. 

“I’m not here for your money. I just want a drink.” He took a seat on one of the barstools, leaving the sack on the ground at his feet. An ale might just chase off the chill of the evening, make his search for a campsite all the more bearable in the drizzle that had begun outside. If the drink itself was bearable, that is. He’d stopped in plenty of towns where the drink tasted worse than the selkimore guts he was covered in. 

“I just said you can-” 

“Put it on my tab, Ivan, and get me one as well.” The rough voice belonged to the dark-haired man who pulled up a stool not far from Geralt, a merry grin splitting his beard as he looked Geralt up and down, ignoring Ivan’s grumbling as he turned to fill the order. “So you’re a witcher, then? Haven’t seen one of you here for nearly twenty years. Lucky us, eh, boys?” he said with a glance over his shoulder, where the other men still watched warily. “Heard you say you wiped out the whole nest of those nasty little things for us.”

Geralt eyed the man, noting the scent of metals and smoke that characterized a town blacksmith. His smile seemed friendly enough, but there was something hard in those dark eyes, something tight and angry in the soot-dusted fist that gripped his mug. Geralt offered him a low hum and a nod, ignoring the way his own drink was slammed on the counter in front of him by the bartender. The blacksmith raised his mug to Geralt, saying, “To monster-slaying, eh?”

The man didn’t wait for a response, throwing back a large gulp of his drink. He didn’t seem to fit the image this town had given. Here, the overall feel was one of hostility, mostly veiled, but easily incensed over even the smallest of imagined slights. The brazen toast was something more befitting a town on the coast where Jaskier’s songs were well known and feats of the ‘White Wolf’ common conversation over drinks. Geralt would have expected this man to be showered with disapproving scowls, but the other patrons and even the bartender himself deferred to him as if he were an authority.

He could well be the closest thing this town had to an authority figure. The town blacksmith was often one to handle village issues, whether it be a horse’s thrown shoe or a broken pickaxe. In a mining town, he’d be providing an essential service. Perhaps that was all the hardness was, just the tension of a town’s leader facing a potential threat. Geralt drank in silence, the ale as good as could be expected, but it wasn’t long before the man spoke up again. 

“You keep those as trophies, then?”

Geralt followed the man’s gaze to the sack at his feet and watched with interest as the bearded jaw worked silently as if in anger, though the tone of his voice had remained light and conversational.

“Take it,” Geralt nodded at him. “A mage might give you something for them, but they’ll be more use to you if you burn them at the edge of your fields. Warn off any other scavengers.” All he received was a noncommittal grunt and Geralt kept a close eye on him as they both finished their drinks. The light outside the dirty windows was fading fast. He’d need to get moving if he wanted to have more than dried provisions for dinner. The atmosphere of the tavern was tense and uncomfortable, the man still seated to his left glowering into his tankard, and there was none of the bustle and cheer that usually filled a town’s gathering place. 

Geralt rose slowly, making sure to keep his movements smooth and nonthreatening as he got to his feet and cast a parting glance at the barkeep before heading for the door. Before he’d taken two steps, however, someone caught his arm. He turned to see the smith, smile firmly in place once again but his eyes glittering like dark beetles beneath his furrowed brow as he said, “Before you go, there’s something I’ve always wanted to ask a witcher.” 

A shuffling alerted Geralt to the approach of several more villagers behind him, moving between him and the door, and his heart sank. Not a smooth exit after all. The hand on his arm tightened, the smithy’s smile soured by the hate in his eyes.

“Does it cut you up inside, every time you kill one of those monsters? Is it like killing your own kin? Or are you really soulless, like they say?” 

Geralt heard a grunt of effort to his left. Wrenching his arm free from the smith’s grip, he turned to face this new opponent, catching only a split-second view of the man’s snarling face before the wooden chair splintered pain across his temple. Geralt stumbled, momentarily dazed, bracing himself on the bar; he could feel blood soaking his hair, drawing a warm wet line down his face, and a low growl rumbled in his throat. Several men cursed as he straightened, stepping back like they’d expected a poorly-made, loose-legged chair to bring him down with one hit. Both of Geralt’s swords were still outside, secured to Roach’s saddle, but a piece of the broken chair was all he needed, knocking his assailant out cold with one strike. The smith blocked him on one side, four more men at the door and another three rising from their places at the worn tables. Some were unarmed, others carried the tools of their trade, pickaxes and shovels they hadn’t bothered to drop off at home before stopping for a drink. Two more men came at him and Geralt instinctively turned to face them, only to hear a grunt of effort from the blacksmith behind him. 

Pain burst sharp and sudden, the weight of the blow landing directly over where the chair had hit and Geralt’s knees buckled as the villagers closed in Time blurred in moments of alternating darkness and clarity. A glimpse of the smith, standing over him, a hammer in his hand and the tool bloody. The lantern outside the tavern glaring blindingly down on him in the dark of dusk. Rain on his face, stinging across the throbbing pain in his head. Men shouting orders and responses. Tugging from all sides and the sudden chill of the air as his cloak and armor were torn away and cold mud soaked through his clothes from the street. He struggled, but every slight sway of his head sent pain arcing through his skull and his vision reeling. 

When the world finally righted itself, Geralt was sitting in the mud, bound by the wrists, arms behind his back and around a sturdy wooden post, thick and unmoving as he leaned back against it. Rain pattered down onto his neck and back from the overhang, his legs muddy and already soaked through. He blinked the sparks from his vision and Roach’s startled whinny drew his attention immediately. Two men were pulling at her, boots slipping in the mud as they hauled her toward the stables beside the tavern. The sight drew an animalistic sound of fury from him and Geralt raked daggers with his gaze across the men surrounding him until he found the bearded face of the blacksmith.

“What the f-” 

“Shut your mouth!” the man shouted, delivering a hard kick to Geralt’s side, breathing hard from the exertion of capturing his prisoner. Geralt seethed. Most men were wise enough to keep their heads down when a witcher was near, despite their superstitions, but this attack had been unexpectedly brazen and organized. This ragtag group of villagers had a leader and that leader, undoubtedly the blacksmith they were all looking to now, was either a madman or else a very, very dangerous vigilante. Either way, he was stupider than the mud caked around his boots.

“Nobody asked you to step into our lands and our business, witcher. This village has had its fill of monsters - why would we invite in a devil to rid us of them? Like bringing a wolf into your home to chase out the rats.” He spat and turned to wave his fellows over. They came carrying a lantern and Geralt’s heavy leather saddlebags.

“Now let’s see what you’ve really been up to, eh?” 

The men passed in a jumble of shadow and light, triumphant faces lit grotesquely from beneath by the swinging lantern until they all crowded around the table a few yards away. The lantern they set on it cast long shadows in the fading light. The furnace and anvil further inside showed this awning was part of the blacksmith’s shop, further proof he was the ringleader here. 

Blinking the rain from his eyes, Geralt confirmed that the dark shapes over the forge were indeed the heads of several centipedes, one with the pincers still attached. The carapaces were cracked at the bottom edge like the heads had been messily hacked off of the bodies and Geralt had no doubt Tomas had done that himself, probably killed them himself too. They were all juvenile creatures, though; the adults were too clever and too large to be caught in any man made traps. 

The smith stood to Geralt’s right, just under the awning out of the rain, between the witcher and his fellow villagers as they dumped the contents of the bags on the table, rifling through them with varying degrees of interest and apprehension. Geralt ground his teeth at the distinct sound of glass bottles striking the wooden surface. It was probably too much to hope for that they’d be stupid enough to drink one of his potions. The man who did would be dead before he could pass the vial along. The rest of his things were just basic provisions, food and water for the road, knives and traps for hunting. The pouch of coins would interest them, but Geralt could collect it up again while they were nursing their wounds. He just had to get free. 

The knot was tight but not very well tied, and Geralt could feel it loosening, even if the twisting involved was rubbing burning lines into his wrists. A voice rose up behind him, calling, “Tomas, take a look at these!” over the clatter of steel on wood.

The smith stepped closer in response. 

The knot loosened further. 

Tools hung above him along the awning, a farrier’s long and heavy tongs closest at hand, sturdy and iron and ready for the taking. Even with his blades in their hands they wouldn’t stand a chance. 

The jingling of coins covered the sound of the ropes as they came undone, and Geralt was on his feet in an instant. Immediately the throbbing in his head grew, making his vision swim momentarily, but his fist closed around heavy iron despite the distraction. As the smith, Tomas, turned, Geralt struck him a staggering blow, caught on his forearm as he tried to defend himself. The man fell back with a furious cry and Geralt rounded on the other five, brushing blood and wet hair from his eyes as he advanced under the overhang and the men scrambled for whatever makeshift weapon lay at hand. The first fell aside, struck squarely in the chest with Aard, and seconds later, a couple of his friend’s teeth scattered the ground as the second man fell beside him. 

“Don’t let that devil near those blades! Geoff, get over here!” Tomas bellowed behind him but Geralt didn’t falter, the remaining three men stumbling over themselves to round the table as he stormed forward, eyes fixed on the next enemy, who held the witcher’s steel sword out in front of him like he was warding a wolf away with a torch. Head thumping in time with his heart, Geralt slammed the blade against the wall with the tongs, disarming the man and knocking him out cold. One more miner stood at the corner of the table, the others scrambling away or lying on the ground bleeding into the dirt. The witcher stooped to retrieve his blade, fingers just brushing the hilt when he caught a rush of movement to his left. He turned sharply, but the movement sent his vision askew, pain arcing across his skull. 

Before it cleared, the rough bristles of a rope had dropped over his face, tightening suddenly around his neck. He growled furiously as he was jerked backwards, white lightning tearing through his head at the movement. Rain soaked heavy and cold onto his shoulders as two men hauled on the rope, their eyes going wide and terrified as he turned, caught the line in one fist and started toward them. The thump of boots behind him was the only warning before another noose circled his neck, pulled taut in the opposite direction. Sparks danced in his vision and thunder rumbled low overhead as his grating, fury-shaken breaths were cut off, the pain in his head growing unbearable. Concussion, possible skull fracture, not at all what he needed right now, and it was slowing him down more than he’d anticipated. 

He captured both ropes in his fists, felt tension leave the lines as he dragged his assailants off balance, but he was vastly outnumbered. The pressure redoubled and Geralt’s vision grew dark. He felt his knees hit the ground with a jarring impact that echoed through his head, and their hands were on him again, the pressure at his neck lessening only slightly, allowing him to drag in a rough breath before they slammed him to the ground and pinned him there on his chest. At least three men were on his back, weighing him down in the mud and muck of the village street, their boots slipping in it as he surged upward, only to collapse again as someone’s elbow glanced across the wound at his temple, dropping him briefly into blackness. It could only have been for a matter of seconds, but when the filthy street stopped spinning, the ropes around his neck had moved, one at his wrists again, the other cinching tight at his ankles and Geralt snarled in furious frustration. Cold mud mingled with the warm wetness spilling down the side of his face as he was pressed into the ground, hogtied and held there as voices whirled around him, lanterns swaying glowing pools in and out of sight in nauseating flashes. 

Women were screaming, crying, and through the darkening night he caught sight of one following in tears as a man was helped to the inn, holding his bloody mouth. Men were arguing nearby, Tomas shouting over them, and it all spun together into one miserable, incomprehensible noise, stabbing knives deep into his brain. More men rushed to their fellows’ aid, one bringing a sturdy wooden yoke usually used to carry water from the well. A hand came down, holding his head against the ground roughly to still his struggles, and Geralt took a moment to just breathe through the pain, swallowing back the bile that rose in his throat as his stomach roiled with the steady thumping pain in his ears. 

Abruptly, the pressure left, and he was dragged across the mud, back to that damnable overhang and the smithy who stood by like a prison warden, leather straps in hand. Geralt was dumped at the base of the post, left to growl into the mud until suddenly, the ropes at his ankles loosened. His gaze flashed upward and he caught sight of the yoke, held in place behind the post, Tomas stepping closer with those straps, his face silhouetted like a spectre by the lantern light, and Geralt knew immediately that this could be his last chance at a quick escape. If those leather straps were tightened, it would take time to undo them, time to wriggle free, and he’d already had more than his fill of this stinking village.

As the ropes fell away, he lashed out blindly, fighting through the agony in his head, and relished the sick crack of his boot against someone’s knee. People were shouting and converging again, filling his vision with bodies and hands and boots, the scent of blood and sweat and booze nauseating around him. Geralt closed his eyes against the sensory assault, still twisting in their grip and someone backhanded him across the face, setting his ears ringing. He clenched his teeth, pain making his stomach twist sickeningly. Firm hands wrenched his arms back, leather fastened with vicious strength, pinning his wrists to the yoke. When he could breathe again past the pain and sickness, he was trapped, seated at the base of the post again, with his hands held up and back. The yoke was on the other side of the pillar, leather binding his wrists securely to each end with his back flat against the thick wooden post and his shoulders already burning from the strain. 

A little ways in front of him, a man was collapsed in the mud, clutching his leg, knee wrenched out of place. Others stood a good couple feet from the reach of Geralt’s boots, panting and staring at him through the rain like he was a caged bear. A few furious tugs on the straps proved useless, though his rage-riddled growls made a few of the closer villagers stumble back in fright. 

“What have you done, Tomas?” a woman cried above the frightened murmurs, and the blacksmith stepped into the yellow light of the several lanterns the crowd had brought. His arm was bloodied elbow to wrist, his eyes nearly black where they caught the firelight. 

“What have _I_ done?” he barked back. “Don’t you see what he is?” He snatched the lantern from the table and stood behind the post, where Geralt’s peripheral vision could barely catch him, and then the lantern blazed inches from his face. The glare was painful, but a few people had clearly seen the gold of his irises before he’d shut his eyes, eliciting a chorus of gasps from the crowd. “I’ve listened to the tales coming through, even if you all haven’t. What I’ve _done_ is saved this village from becoming another bloodbath like Blaviken!” 

The name drew an all-too-familiar twinge through Geralt’s heart, but he’d long since accepted that the world would never see what had happened there as anything more than the butchering of innocents. No matter how many times he’d tried to explain, no one ever listened, and the story had grown, twisted, from a gang of mercenaries and a fight he was forced into, to innocent farmers slaughtered at their market stalls in simple cold blood. This no-name village was miles from Blaviken, but he didn’t doubt the story had spread this far. It had been years, after all, and there was only one white-haired witcher still roaming the continent. 

Tomas raised his good arm, catching the sack one of the other men hefted to him, continuing to speak like this particular patch of mud and rain was his personal stage.

“Came into the tavern with this-” He upended the bag, spilling the shiny black heads, eyes glittering even in death, onto the mud between Geralt and the gathered townspeople, ignoring the rain that stuck his dark hair to his brow and caused several others to tug their hoods and cloaks tighter around them. “Claimed he wanted no payment, but we all know you don’t rid yourself of a witcher without shedding gold or blood. Like as not he charmed these close enough to kill, and would’ve sent the rest into our streets tonight if the lads and I hadn’t put a stop to it.”

“What good would that do me?” Geralt spat, aiming his words at Tomas with a biting glare. “I destroyed that nest before I knew your village even existed.” 

“And why should we believe _that?_ ” The words were accompanied by a sharp blow to his jaw. Glowering up at the bearded man, Geralt struggled to keep his tone even, knowing that any sign of uncontrolled anger would only fuel their image of him as a wild beast. 

“Would you have preferred I leave the creatures there until they grew fat on your livestock? Started to come for your neighbors? Your children?” He spat out the blood coating his tongue. 

“We’ve handled it ourselves for years without any ‘help’ from your kind,” Tomas replied, to a murmur of agreement from the lingering crowd. “If you witchers are such kind-hearted folk, where were you when the _igharn_ took Greta’s husband? When Mikel lost all his oxen in one night?” Geralt’s lip curled at the word “igharn,” recognizing beneath the twist of time the Elder word “Yghern,” the ancient name for the beasts that had scuttled about this place for centuries, growing and spreading until they reached settlements and the juicy meats of fattened livestock. “That last one of you that came through left my father and brother to fend the beasts off themselves when he learned they couldn’t meet his price. Both dead within a fortnight, trying to keep this town safe from creatures he could have wiped out in a night.” His bloodied arm swung out accusingly at the bits of exoskeleton that gleamed dully in the lantern-light, blacker than the tar-dark mud they sat in. “So don’t you bloody _dare_ try to treat us like the other fools you’ve swindled, witcher!” 

With that he turned away, muttering to the men. Geralt clenched his jaw against any further outbursts, testing the strength of the leather straps once more and huffing in frustration when they held, strong as ever, the knots too far out of reach for him to fiddle with. The crowd slowly dwindled away, most headed to the tavern to escape the downpour and check on the wounded. A few stayed behind to gather the bits of glittering carapace back into Geralt’s bag, carrying it off for their own unknown purposes. Soon it was only Tomas and his cronies who stood around the post, three sturdy-looking men, miners by the look of them. The blacksmith shared a few muttered words with them before following the crowd to the tavern, no doubt going to lick his wounds with the rest of them. The three left behind approached with heavy, firm steps and Geralt let out a heavy sigh, eyeing the men as they rolled up their sleeves.

“I don’t suppose an apology would make any difference?” He was answered with a kick in his face and he groaned as two of the men circled behind him, taking hold of the yoke and lifting, hauling him to his feet. Geralt grimaced at the change in altitude, head spinning. “Didn’t think so,” he mumbled under his breath as the beating began in earnest. He took every hit as best he could, managing to dodge some of the blows aimed at his head, but every twitch or tilt of his head resulted in stabbing pain. Eventually, they realized that they were at risk of really killing him if they kept pounding away at his head wound, and they switched tactics, aiming for his chest and gut instead. Geralt just braced himself, spat blood at their feet, and waited. 

Someone would make a mistake. Untie him to give him food or to adjust the restraints, leave a weapon nearby, or even just leave him alone for a few hours so he could work at those leather straps, loosen them over time and get out of this town for good. By the time Tomas returned, they’d grown tired, leaving Geralt to drop back to the ground rather than keep the heavy yoke held up on his own. 

Tomas looked him over in the dim lantern light, eyeing the new splatters of mud and blood, then grunted as if satisfied, and strode past. His arm was neatly bandaged now, but from what Geralt could see of the blacksmith as he leaned over the table, rummaging through cast-off bits of metal and half-finished work, the man was definitely favoring it. The blow would have been enough to give him a good concussion had that arm not gotten in the way. Geralt knew he should’ve been able to take them all, _would_ have been able to, if not for that one lucky shot in the tavern that had left blood sticking his hair in matted strands. One slip, one little moment when he’d let his guard down, believed for just one second that someone in this miserable town didn’t immediately hate him, and now here he was, sitting beaten and filthy in the rain-soaked street while some stuck-up fool paraded around him like it was some act of great skill and bravery to swing a hammer at a man’s head when his back was turned. 

When Thomas straightened, he held something fist-sized in one hand, a large hammer in the other, and stepped out of Geralt’s sight to kneel behind the post. 

“Just in case you had any clever ideas about slippin’ away in the night,” he said, almost conversationally, and without warning hammered several jarring strokes against the yoke, the combination of the percussion and the clatter of something metal renewing the pain in Geralt’s head. When the hammering stopped, Tomas knocked the addition to the yoke, filling the air with the harsh clangor of a cowbell. “I’m a light sleeper, so don’t think you’ll be gettin’ past me. And I saw what you did to Ned earlier.” The blacksmith’s voice rose as he stood, still out of sight, though his shadow cast by the lantern wavered ghost-like across the ground. “You’ll be right here come morning, with none of your witcher trickery.”

Ned must’ve been the man he’d hit with Aard, because immediately following his words, the crushing weight of that hammer came down on Geralt’s right hand with the unmistakable crack of breaking bone. The witcher bit off the startled cry that leapt from his lips, strangling it into a grating curse. He’d just taken a shaking breath when his body jolted with the second blow, feeling the bones in his fingers grating wrongly in his left hand. Agony tore, sharp and jagged, down his arms, dragging his breaths to tight-jawed snarls, blood spilling down his chin, now from a bitten lip as well as the torn flesh of his cheek. Tomas’s boots entered his lowered vision and Geralt glowered up at him as the man spoke again, the hate in the smith’s voice bittered with personal vengeance.

“These people are going to see you for what you really are. Walking around in boots doesn’t make you better than other monsters - it just makes you harder to spot.” Disgust twisted his features and the man spat on the ground, rain washing away any sign of it before he’d even turned his back. With that, Tomas vanished into the dark night and left the witcher, finally, alone. 

Geralt took a long few minutes to catch his breath. Things had gone wrong so quickly he’d hardly had time to process the situation before something new was heaped onto him. Now, shame was settling deep in his gut, honed to a steely edge by anger. He’d find a way to get out, one way or another, and as much as he wanted to promise himself revenge when he did finally escape this makeshift prison, he knew he’d really end up taking Roach and his things and leaving, never to return. He refused to be the butcher they’d painted him as. 

That said, if those miners came back in the morning, he’d be sure to kick their teeth out. 

That much would be fair. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We used actor Stephen Walters as our base for Tomas the blacksmith. We first saw him in Shetland but his shaggy haired, bearded look in Outlander is what we used for this fic!


	2. Chapter 2

Geralt breathed out, slow and steady, and began the process of assessing the damage done. Any movement of his fingers was barely-dulled agony, but he was able to determine that at least two were broken on his left hand, and one on his right, maybe more just very badly bruised. If he was going to get out of the restraints himself it would have to be soon, before the swelling spread and the pain dug too deep. But no amount of careful movement got him anywhere close to the knot on the other side of the yoke, and the effort was drawing muffled groans from him along with the faintest clatter of the cowbell. 

He couldn’t do it, not with broken fingers and that yoke blocking him. There had to be another way. Geralt briefly considered using Aard to knock some of the tools loose from the edge of the awning, maybe cut himself free, but discarded the idea just as quickly when his attempt to straighten his fingers nearly made him black out again. Leaning back against the post, he let the rain wash the sweat and blood from his face. He was tempted to ring that stupid cowbell through the night just to ruin the blacksmith’s sleep, but he knew it wouldn’t get him anything but more abuse. He needed a better plan than belligerence and the combative nature these villagers favored. And to get that better plan, he’d need to rest. He definitely had a concussion, if not a split skull, and while the wound had stopped bleeding, it still throbbed and ached like someone was digging a knife into his brain. 

As it turned out, though, resting with your arms wrenched back so far your shoulder blades nearly met was no easy thing. He spent some time meditating, or trying to, but the patter of rain across his aching head made it impossible to focus. The night passed slowly, the rain stopping just after midnight, and he managed to doze fitfully for a few hours before dawn broke again across the muddy streets and he voiced a weary groan as movement in the blacksmith’s house to his right signaled the waking of his captors. 

The village woke slowly with the coming dawn, women gathering at the well and casting him wary looks as if he were a wild animal that might lunge at the children clinging to their skirts. The men left for the mines and fields, their muttered conversations about Tomas and his “mutant” lowering a stone-cold glare onto Geralt’s brow. The smith himself emerged from his home with a satisfied chuckle.

“You’ve got a little sense in you, then,” he said, passing Geralt at a careful distance. Metal scraped stone as the smith readied the furnace for the day’s work. “Most beasts would have gnawed through their own leg already.” Geralt forced a hard smile onto his face, glancing over his shoulder only fractionally, keenly aware of the dull ache in his temple and the grating pain in his swollen fingers at every twitch or shift of his arms. 

“Not fond of witchers?” 

The man scoffed harshly, but otherwise ignored him. 

“Keeping me here… it’s a good way to get more of us breathing down your backs.” 

The sounds of work behind him stopped entirely for half a second before resuming, and Geralt smirked. After a few beats, Tomas said, “You sure you want to waste your breath on threats, witcher?” 

The veiled concern in the man’s voice was satisfying to hear even if Geralt was lying through his teeth. Geralt and the other witchers had parted ways intending to follow their own roads until winter forced them together again like beasts to hibernation. No one would keep tabs on him, no one knew he was here, and it would be a year before the witchers converged on this area again. If he could get Tomas to believe there was a pack of wolves right outside his door, though, he might just get out of this with some dignity intact. Geralt shifted to look further over his shoulder, allowing a half-smile to draw his grim expression into a slightly more feral look.

“You’ve imprisoned a witcher right in the shadow of Kaer Morhen itself. Not exactly the wisest of moves.” 

The steady gust of the bellows continued for nearly a minute, the smith likely turning the notion over in his mind, and Geralt let him ponder, returning his gaze to his town square. Then, voice pitched over the bellows, Tomas said, “You’re the first to come crawling out of that ruin since I was still at me mum’s skirts. I’ll take my chances.” 

The smile dropped from Geralt’s lips, a dangerous glare taking its place and his eyes ticked to the side, addressing the smith coldly. “Let me go. I’ll leave peacefully and your rotten blight of a town can go on being a blemish on the map.” 

The heave of the bellows stopped abruptly. He counted three firm steps, then Tomas’s hand snared Geralt’s hair, snapping his head back against the post as the blacksmith growled, “You don’t make  _ peace  _ with monsters. You stamp them out, or you make an example of them so the rest know to stay clear.” He released his hold roughly, and returned to his work.

Geralt ground his teeth in furious frustration, breathing slowly and deliberately through his nose until the pain in his head stopped stirring in his stomach. So Tomas was set in his ways, blinded by his hateful prejudice, and Geralt was sure no amount of bartering or threats would cause the man to release him. The rest of the townsfolk looked to him as a leader, the sooty smith being the loudest and boldest of them, and possibly the one most prone to violent outbursts. They wouldn’t openly oppose Tomas, especially not after Geralt had wounded so many of them in his botched escape attempt. 

The day passed in infuriating circles of thought, plan after plan being examined and discarded as each villager he saw either shot him dirty looks or gave him a wide berth. Tomas went about his business as usual. His customers passed the bound witcher with wary hesitance, some voicing concerns over the danger of keeping him there in the square, but Tomas laughed it all off, assuring them the White Wolf was effectively muzzled. Geralt felt his blood boil at the phrase but he clamped his mouth shut over the curses he wanted to hurl at the man, saving his strength. 

As Tomas worked, Geralt watched, studying the village and its people. The miners left at daybreak, staying out until sundown, when they trudged across the streets to drop off their tools before heading to the tavern for a nightly drink. The women visited the well in the pale light of early dawn, children laughing and playing at their heels, but spent most of their time indoors. There were maybe twelve families in total, twelve fit men, and a few young boys who looked hardy enough to hold a weapon. Not that he intended to do battle with the whole village. He just needed to know the players, their movements and capabilities, so he would be able to recognize when things changed. Over time they would grow bored with him and their guard would slip. He watched as Tomas visited the stables across the square to re-shoe a horse and Geralt caught a quick glimpse of Roach, tucked away in a stall, head down, presumably munching her breakfast. At least she hadn’t suffered for the village’s prejudice against him. 

All the while, he worked at his bonds. 

Leather would stretch further than rope. It would take a long while for these sturdy straps to do so, but the subtle twist of his wrists, disguised as uncomfortable squirming, would eventually loosen them. The cowbell was less of an alert and more an irritant now that it was day, and Geralt took a grim sort of pleasure in the sour looks Tomas and the villagers cast him as the bell continued clattering away, if softly, in the background, a constant reminder to his head that it was feeling poorly and ought to voice that discomfort in the form of a pounding headache.

His neck had joined in the fun, aching both from the awkward night’s sleep and from the raw red lines those ropes had left around his throat. And his hands were in bad shape, probably a grisly sight if the villager’s expressions were anything to go by. His fingers had swollen, likely gone purple with bruising by now, and even the slightest movement of his wrists had pain streaking down his arms. He just grit his teeth and pressed on. A little pain now would be well worth the chance to get out, get on the road again, and wipe all memory of this pathetic village from his mind with a few large pints of whatever alcohol he came across first.

He was hungry, too, but not badly. He was used to going without food for a time if game was scarce and towns few and far between. Water was another problem, though. He was offered nothing as the village took its lunch without him, Tomas laying aside his tools and chewing noisily nearby, the water in his mug more tempting to Geralt’s parched throat than the meat or bread on his plate. His thirst wasn’t terrible just yet. He’d managed to catch a few mouthfuls of rain the night before, but if he was to be left without food or water, he’d need to conserve his strength and focus on those leather straps before dehydration became a real problem.

Supper passed the same way, with warm light pouring into the street from the tavern and the windows of homes and Geralt left to sit in the chill of the evening air, head pounding and sweat beading on his brow from the constant pulsating pain that jagged down from fingers, to hands, to arms, joining the burning in his shoulders and back. 

After an hour of peace during which he’d tested the straps and found them loosening, but not quite loose enough to work his hands free yet, voices rose and movement returned to the tavern entrance. The silhouette of the blacksmith in the doorway led a number of other figures from the building, all headed directly in Geralt’s direction. He sighed, taking a moment to be still and let the pain die down as he watched the men approach. 

“Circle up, lads,” Tomas said as the group gathered in the lantern-light spreading from the eaves of the smithy. One or two were familiar from yesterday’s brawl, but a few were younger men Geralt had glimpsed during the day, their attention split between Tomas and Geralt. “You’ve all grown up in the shadow of that forsaken castle, but most of you likely don’t know why your dads don’t want you traveling that way. This -” He pointed to Geralt, arm throwing a giant’s shadow across the ground. “- is why: witchers. Not many of the creatures left, by all accounts, but every meeting with them is a curse.” 

“Which is why your smith has decided to keep one in the town square,” Geralt deadpanned. He fixed a bored look on Tomas, continuing levelly, “If you’re going to fill their heads with this superstitious drivel, at least have it make some sense.” 

Tomas shot him a dark look, but spoke to his audience, saying, “If you forget where your fathers have walked, you walk down the same road into the same muck.” He turned to fetch the lantern down with his good arm, stepping closer so the light shone clearly on Geralt’s face. “And these things are the wickedest creatures you’ll find down that road. Looks like a man, even talks like one - I see you thinkin’ it, Cam. And you’re right. Most do a better job at it than this one; the one I saw as a boy had hair dark as mine, and eyes to match. Doesn’t mean this one’s any less dangerous, though, or that the other one was any more a man than this one. Witchers aren’t men, and never were.” 

“Wrong.” Geralt kept his gaze on Tomas while his audience intently followed the dialogue between them. “A witcher starts out every bit as human as you. We are trained and changed in order to protect  _ ungrateful  _ citizens such as yourselves from  _ real  _ monsters.” 

Without a word, Tomas crossed to the furnace, light ebbing behind Geralt until he returned, now carrying a soot-blackened poker. 

“They lie easy as breathing,” he said, and tapped Geralt’s near hand sharply with the end of it. Geralt didn’t give him any more satisfaction than the slightest twitch of his head as viperous pain was roused from its slumber to strike venom down his arms again. “See his hands? The only way to keep him from spelling us like he did Ned last night. If he can’t catch you with his spells, he’ll catch you with his lies instead. What he said about ‘changed’? That’s black magic. That’s devil-craft, bargaining itself a body so it can walk into our village and think us none the wiser.”

That one Geralt didn’t argue with. These people were definitely none too wise.

“What does it want?” one of the young men asked, a frown etched deeply between his brows.

“To leave,” Geralt grumbled, and earned himself another strike of the poker, harder this time, and Geralt couldn’t help a low groan as the bones in his broken fingers grated on each other. Tomas continued doggedly, “That’s a good question to ask, lad, but I can’t give you a straight answer on it. They’re wicked, fey things, these witchers. The last one wanted our coin, and plenty of it, and when it couldn’t get it from us, it left us to the kindness of the monsters. This one… only the gods know, but what’s born of evil never wants good.” 

“Really?” Geralt scoffed. “You’ve never known a man born to cruel parents to decide he doesn’t want that life for his own sons?” The younger boys looked uncertain at that, and Geralt pushed his advantage, adding with a glare darted at Tomas, “And what evil is there in ridding a defenceless village of its attackers?” He fixed a pointed look on the reddening face of the bearded smith. “Or offering the heads to the blacksmith to be sold on to the nearest mage?” 

The blacksmith in question had gone quiet, listening motionlessly until Geralt finished. For a few moments he looked outward at the group of lads, catching each of their eyes in turn, then he stalked up beside Geralt and brought his foot down on the yoke. The bell clattered and Geralt’s shoulders were wrenched back, arched painfully as the smith leaned his full weight there. 

“When you see a wolf outside your pens, what do you do?” he asked, voice loud over Geralt’s strained growls. Without waiting for an answer, he went on, “You might say to yourself, ‘Ah, what harm will he do? Might chase off the foxes. Might kill a highwayman. Might be useful to have around.’ And he might do those things, and you get comfortable. But comes the day you see the wolf on your doorstep, eying your little ones, it’s too late to change your mind. The wolf’s already  _ here _ .” The last word heralded a harder stamp against the yoke, drawing lines of pain like the pinions of a bird’s wings, spreading fire from his shoulders to his mangled fingertips. 

Tomas’s weight lifted and Geralt dragged in a rough breath, cursing the smith aloud, earning himself a heavy punch to his jaw for it. His anger soared to new levels, though, as a soot-smelling hand closed on the silver medallion Geralt wore, dragging the chain roughly over Geralt’s head. 

“He may have killed those  _ igharn  _ and played the friendly traveler at first, boys, but mark my words: this is the most dangerous animal you’ll ever lay eyes on.” He stepped away out of range, wolfshead medallion swinging bright at the end of the chain in Tomas’s fist.

With his every breath ending in a gravelly growl, blood on his teeth, and his eyes narrowed, Geralt knew he looked every bit the part of Tomas’s “dangerous animal.” It took everything he had not to lash out at the man physically and verbally as he showed off his trophy to the crowd. Geralt couldn’t remember the last time he’d taken that medallion off. It had been a part of who he was for as long as he could remember, and it sent fury boiling in his chest to see it dangled from another man’s fist in front of a bunch of gawking fools. 

And that apparently concluded the lesson for tonight. Tomas sent the boys home, doused the fire in the forge, and went to bed without another word. Geralt seethed, breathing hard in the chilled air as he forced his anger to a tense calm, but beneath the rage lurked the even more dangerous snare of shame. What would Vesemir say if he could see his star pupil now? Probably laugh and say it was Geralt’s own fault for letting his guard down and trying to play the hero yet again. A full day as the laughing stock of the most insignificant village on the map, and Geralt was fed up with it. 

As the night progressed and the stiffness in his shoulders grew numb, he worked tirelessly on the straps. The pain had been worth something at least; Tomas’s weight had stretched the leather even further than Geralt’s torn wrists could have. Frustration rankled in him, though, as dawn painted her silken gown across the sky. If it weren’t for the swelling in his palms, he could’ve been free and gone by the time the miners left for work again. As it was, he watched the men trail from their homes and kept on, the cowbell rattling softly as lines of blood ran down his forearms. 

He edged the heel of his right palm through bit by agonizing bit, taking the moments in between to breathe and let the pain fade from wildfire to a manageable blaze as his broken, swollen hand was compressed slowly through the loop of leather. He’d just stopped for another breather when the door to the smith’s house opened and Tomas emerged. Geralt barely held back a bitter curse. 

The heavy boot-tread approached, then passed behind the post, headed for the furnace as usual. Amid the clatter of tools and the scrape of metal against stone, Geralt heard a pause, a curse, and then the hasty approach of the smith’s boots behind him. A sudden weight slammed the yoke downward, and at the same time, Tomas dragged his broken hand roughly back through the leather loop, tightening both straps with a stream of curses. The sharp scent of the man’s fear was fleeting as the smith buried it under his rage. His weight left the yoke, and Geralt felt bitter anger tighten his jaw as he turned sharply, ignoring the dull ache in his head and neck in favor of tracking Tomas’s movement as the smith double-checked both knots. 

“What are you getting out of all this?” Geralt snarled, yanking hard on the straps only to find them firmer than ever. “You get some satisfaction out of other people’s pain?” 

“Ah, well, for that to be true, you’d have to be a person first, wouldn’t you, witcher?” Tomas shot back, circling round to face Geralt and inspect his restraints from that side. And there, silver glinting against the man’s dirty tunic, hung a familiar wolf’s head emblem. 

Geralt knew, deep down, that he would regret what he was about to do. 

It was reckless, pointless, and could very well get him killed. 

At the same time, though, Geralt was tired. 

He was tired and hungry, his hands hurt like they were slowly being crushed in a vise, he was sore and thirsty and very,  _ very  _ angry, and the satisfaction of ramming the heel of his boot between the blacksmith’s legs almost made up for the whole thing. Tomas buckled immediately, dropping to his knees on the ground with only inches between him and his prisoner, and Geralt leaned in close, letting the shock and glimmer of fear in the brown eyes add an edge of spite to his voice as he growled, “If you’re going to kill me, then get on with it…” Fear hung in the air around them as the smith surfaced from pain to the realization that he was hardly an inch from Geralt’s dark glower. Before he could move away, Geralt added, “...or are you a coward as well as a thief?” 

The thump and groan that followed his swift headbutt mingled with the metallic scent of fresh blood as Tomas fell backward, hands flying to his nose as blood poured down his front. Geralt might’ve laughed if the blow hadn’t rattled his own skull hard enough to send sparks dancing across the scene, along with a renewed hammering in his head as if forge and blacksmith alike had taken up residence there. His own muttered curse was barely audible through the ringing in his ears, which is why he didn’t see or hear the blacksmith stagger up and back into the smithy. 

Still not fully recovered, Geralt was entirely unprepared for the blade that punched deep into his thigh. His throbbing head hit the post with the violent jolt of his body, a startled shout halted on his tongue, swallowed back into a crumbling, jagged groan. He forced his eyes open to see Tomas, blood painted down through his beard and across his neck, his fist clutching the hilt of the farriers knife buried in Geralt’s leg and his expression livid. 

“You’ve stolen  _ lives _ , witcher!”

Blood soaked the dark fabric at his leg, but Geralt set his face in stone, staring down the blacksmith and holding back all but a faint twitch as Tomas jerked the blade free, blood spilling in its wake. Dark eyes never wavering from the witcher’s, he levelled the knife at Geralt’s face, blood sliding down the hilt and across his knuckles as he spoke, as his voice shook with rage.

“My father was a good man, and he died  _ screamin' _ , out of his head with the poison one of those monsters bit him with, because your lot didn't think his life was worth our last bit of silver. So my brother went out to fight ‘em back from the fields, and we found him two days later in  _ pieces _ . This little bauble,” he said, striking the medallion with one blunt finger, “doesn’t even begin to pay the debt you owe us, witcher.” He turned, bellowing, “Ivan!” over his shoulder and the burly innkeeper soon came running down the street, aghast at the bloody scene. Geralt set his gaze to the middle distance, jaw tight as the man lifted the yoke at Tom’s orders, the action spreading a tingling sensation along Geralt’s arms as the pressure shifted. Then his legs were wrenched roughly back, ankles lashed together behind the post and he was dropped heavily to the ground on his knees, blood streaming down his leg to pool in the mud below. 

That morning was an omen for how the rest of the day would play out. Tomas left to mop up his face, and came back in the same foul mood, taking out his ire on whatever he was shaping on his anvil. The clangor was deafening, every hammer-blow a spike of sound through Geralt’s skull, a painful counterpoint to the burning throb in his leg.

Geralt tried to keep his focus off of the sound and on the wound he couldn’t quite see clearly past the torn fabric of his trousers. The bleeding had slowed, the lack of spurting blood evidence enough that no artery had been struck, but a farrier’s knife, usually used to scrape clean a horse’s hoof, was far from sterile. The wound needed to be cleaned and wrapped if he was to avoid infection, but it was becoming increasingly apparent that he was well and truly trapped here, and now that he was bound hand and foot, he had no way of defending himself.

Sometime around noon, based on the sunlight that cast watery shadows between chinks in the clouds, the first rock skipped across the mud several feet to his right. A straw-haired boy stood halfway across the street, another rock or clod of dirt already in hand, and a taller boy beside him, whispering excitedly over his shoulder. The second throw came closer, tumbling past Geralt’s knees. Within an hour, half a dozen children had gathered for the game. Each child who stepped forward was urged on with cheers of, “Get him!” and “Throw it harder!”, and Tomas worked on, undisturbed by the projectiles that sometimes rolled into the smithy itself. 

Geralt just kept his head down. Most of the rocks missed their mark and the ones that hit didn’t have anywhere near the force behind them that Geralt had endured in the past. Rather than being painful, the few stones that struck their mark only added to his humiliation. 

Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf, kneeling helpless as children pelted him with stones and wet gobs of mud, laughing and jeering the most uncreative insults he’d ever heard, egged on by both their peers and the reckless overconfidence of youth… the experience was edging on the absurd, and as Geralt endured it all, a heavy realization grew in his weary mind.

He hadn’t slept, eaten, or had more than rainwater to drink in the nearly three days he’d been here. His body was battered and strained, his fingers broken, and the longer they remained without treatment, the less likely he was to regain full movement and control. And now he was losing blood as well, the result of his own stupid loss of temper. He could die here. It would be the stupidest death in the history of Kaer Morhen’s witchers, but it could happen. This forsaken dung heap of a town could very well be his final resting place, and wouldn’t  _ that  _ be a fine addition to Jaskier’s songs? 

Geralt glanced up, turning his head as one of the boys worked up the courage to sprint past him into the smithy to collect the rocks and replenish their supply. At the witcher’s sudden movement, a chorus of screams burst from the children, prompting Tomas to leave his work. A vicious kick to Geralt’s wounded leg left him breathing hard through his nose, and the blacksmith ushered the boy back to his fellows, small arms full so the game could begin again.

Absolutely the stupidest way to die that he could possibly have envisioned. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Geralt is 1000% DONE.


	3. Chapter 3

Late that night, much later than previous nights, Tomas came swaggering from the tavern, silhouette jumbled with those of the men following behind. The uninhibited volume of their voices did not bode well, particularly as their steps collectively veered toward the smithy once again. 

“Hey, witcher!” came a shout, presumably directed at him, and a lanky man took the lead of the small group. “Not so fierce now, are you? Hope you taught him somethin’ for bloodying you, Tomas.”

“Oh, aye. We had a little chat, we did,” Tomas replied, leaning against the other post supporting the smithy’s overhang. An older farmer with sun-browned arms shook his head, saying, “Well, you’re a sight more patient than most. If I’d caught the beast that did for my family, his carcass would already be feeding crows. A surly thing, by the gods.” 

Surly. That was an understatement, Geralt mused, but he kept his eyes on the ground, preferring the sight of his own dried blood to their booze-reddened faces.

The first man spoke up again, still eyeing Geralt.

“Ben didn’t deserve the end he got. Your dad neither,” he said, the words blurring together slightly. “Good people.” A murmur of agreement from the other men. Tomas’s boots shuffled in the corner of Geralt’s vision, his northern burr stronger than usual.

“Be twenty-one years this summer.” The smith’s words were bitten off in pieces sharp as the rocks still strewn across the ground from the children’s sport earlier. “Ben’d be married by now, and Dad’d have his little ‘uns to brag over.” He angled his head hard toward Geralt, breath coming rough. “Do your lot brag about the money you bring in? About how low you bring the man who gets onto his bloody  _ knees  _ to beg for your help? You like seein’ a proud man broken, like my dad, hey?” 

The smith’s voice had risen angrily, and a few quick steps brought him close enough to deal a hard kick to his captive’s side. Geralt grimaced as his weight shifted with the strike, dried blood cracking where it was caked around the wound in his leg. 

“So…” Geralt sighed, waiting as the men stilled, listening for the weary rasp of his voice. “You’ve had twenty-one years to consider that witcher’s crimes… and the first chance you get, you become the very monster you’ve hated.” The men murmured among themselves, the words sharp but none more so than the smith’s.

“You’re calling  _ me  _ a monster?” 

Geralt lifted his gaze, finding the smith’s face and matching his shadowed glare. When he spoke, his voice was firm, a final attempt to reach the man lost behind two decades of festering hate. 

“Which of us is currently on his knees?” 

If his words struck their mark anywhere in the blacksmith’s angry heart, his reddened eyes and shaking fists gave no sign. 

“Oh, you’re on your knees, witcher, but you’re not broken yet.”

Geralt sighed, disappointment and frustration bitter in his heart as Tomas stormed past him, returning from the smithy with the dark iron of the poker tight in his fist. The witcher cast him a look, not so much a glare as it was a weary acknowledgment. 

“Killing me won’t bring them back,” he said softly, but the drunken flush of the man’s face only darkened with rage. 

“A night of drinks is on me tomorrow for the first man who breaks a bone,” he announced, passing off the poker into the ready hands beside him.

The blows came hard and fast, one of the sloppier swings dragging the poker’s hook across his chest, leaving a line of blood in its wake. Another rogue hit glanced across his cheek. The men took turns, shouting and cheering each other on as Geralt tried and failed to brace himself for each strike, jaw aching with the strain of holding back his pained groans. Tomas took his turns too, vicious strokes aimed at both chest and wounded leg with all the force he could muster. Geralt lost track of who was swinging, how many times he’d been hit, all he knew was that the dull crack that blossomed pain across his chest meant a broken rib. Still they didn’t stop, not until he felt a second rib break and a short cry burst past his lips, drawing raucous cheering from the men. They congratulated each other as Geralt gasped, each breath agony no matter how shallow he made them. 

He hung there, blood across his chest and leg, the knife wound reopened and burning; more coppery pain dripped down his jaw and lips from the slice across his cheek. The crowd dispersed, stumbling off home, and Geralt closed his eyes with a soft breath of bitter relief. Tomas returned to the forge, glass clinking against glass as he approached again. The smith crouched in front of him, a series of familiar vials held between his fingers and waggled in Geralt’s field of vision. 

“Look what I found,” he said, still slightly breathless from his sport. “Not sure what you had planned with these bits of mischief, but have a good last look.”

He rose and, one by one, drove his heel into each vial, spilling their contents across the bloodied ground. Geralt watched as his last healing potion was smashed under the smith’s boot, a sinking feeling dragging at his shallow breaths. Tomas left without another word, and Geralt stared as dark liquid pooled in the mud and the last flicker of hope in his chest was extinguished. 

A body could only endure so much before the energy it needed to heal outweighed the energy it could muster. On an average day, any one of Geralt’s injuries could easily have been dealt with, even without his potions. Broken ribs could heal, bloody wounds be bound, broken fingers splinted. But it was clear to him now that he wasn’t leaving this place. Even if he could get his hands free, even if he could twist his shattered ribcage to reach the bindings at his ankles, and find the strength to stand on legs numb from days of stiff kneeling… even then, he was starving, parched. He wouldn’t even make it to the edge of the village before he collapsed and was dragged back here, or else killed on the spot. 

And as the days passed, he only grew weaker. By noon on his fifth day at the post, his mind was buzzing with a sickly hunger. A heavy downpour had prevented the village boys from playing their game with the stones, but the rainwater that poured over the edge of the roof onto his head offered a rare chance to quench his thirst. He tipped his head back and drank desperately, only to have his empty stomach twist at the sudden offering. When the heaving finally ended, Geralt panted through the stabbing pain in his chest, Tomas’s laughter ringing dizzily in his ears. He drank a little more, barely more than a mouthful, just enough to wash the taste of bile from his tongue, before he hung his head and let the stream of water cascade over him, washing away some of the blood from his face. 

By evening, the rain had stopped and left his shirt soaked and his abused body shivering in the chill of the night air. He managed to draw a little moisture from the fabric at his shoulder, but it was only enough to wet his tongue, and simply served to remind his body just how thirsty it was. He didn’t sleep. The frosty damp of the mountain air and the grinding pain in every breath roused him from even the briefest moments of rest. 

By dawn, his shirt was damp and stiff and the last drops of water fell past him from the awning above. He didn’t have the energy to try and catch them. With every passing hour, he grew more certain there was something worse in his chest than just broken ribs. An ache was creeping across his abdomen, slow and deadly. Internal bleeding could kill fast or slow depending on the severity of the bleed, and this one seemed cruelly sluggish, adding yet another layer of pain over it all.

Time blurred in moments of light and dark, callous lucidity and blessed nothingness. The children of the village grew bolder, their game edging closer to where Geralt knelt and their aim improving as a result. He knew his chest was a myriad of bruises, but none were worse than the black pain stamped across his ribcage. Tomas and his gang had their nightly fun as well, beating him, throwing stones, pouring ale over his head to sting in his cuts and twist his stomach with nausea at its smell. 

It was only a matter of time now. 

His death in this village had gone from an infuriating possibility to a terrible certainty. He couldn’t escape on his own, too weak now to bother trying to raise his head when someone walked past, and too tired to bite back his moans when a stone struck its mark or a fist or boot deepened the agony in his leg and chest. Through it all, Geralt’s thoughts drifted loose as an unmoored vessel, rocking from miserable hunger to the chills that wracked his frame. His mind lingered on his injuries, knowing in a detached sort of way that the heat spreading from his leg meant infection had taken hold, but he was too numb to care. 

His anger toward Tomas and the village had fallen away as well, leaving behind only a tremor of fear. It wasn’t that he’d thought his death would be a painless one. It was natural for a witcher to die in battle or succumb to his wounds after killing a monster. It would usually be quick… maybe not, but still, it was to be expected going into a fight that it could be his last. He’d nearly died fighting the striga, but the striga had already killed one witcher. Painful though it had been, there was no shame in dying at the hands of such a creature, especially not when he’d successfully cured her moments before he’d lost consciousness. 

But this…

Hour upon hour of agony without rest until his body and brain were numb with it. Watching people carry on with their days just out of reach, not one sparing him more than a disgusted glance. Brought down not by some mighty beast, but by common men with common tools. This was slow, shameful, and now, as the restless ache of fever burned through him and his mind wandered far and aimless, he was afraid… deeply afraid of this ambling death. Afraid that Kaer Morhen would receive word that Geralt, the White Wolf, had been struck down right on their doorstep, beaten and toyed with like an animal before he’d succumbed. 

Would anyone mourn him? Would anyone even know? The only being on the continent who might be looking for him was Jaskier and they’d agreed to meet up much further south than this. Would he seek out word? Discover the miserable, shameful truth of the white-haired witcher’s demise? It would hardly make a fitting end for the series of ballads and tales the bard had woven of Geralt’s exploits, more befitting a mocking limerick than a heroic song. All he could hope for was that, when he did finally die, the villagers would let the story fade, leave it lost between the mountains, and dispose of his body in a place no one would ever find it. Maybe then Jaskier could make up his own ending, something better than this twisted, shameful tale.

Geralt listened with dull disinterest as the village woke on the seventh day, the clatter of market stalls being turned out and women talking by the well overlaid by the too-fast thump of his fevered heart. He stared at the dirt, not reacting when Tomas gave his head a rough shove on his way past, going to a farmer’s land to mend a plow. 

He didn’t even notice the boy at first, too deep in misery to care who approached. But when a small pair of boots entered his downcast vision, Geralt felt a flicker of surprise. He glanced up to find a boy watching him. He couldn’t be more than three years old, messy dark curls framing his round face, tiny hand clutching a thin stick as he studied the witcher with calm curiosity. 

Geralt froze. 

The child’s mother was at the well, her back turned, talking to the others, unaware that her boy was standing boldly not two feet from the witcher’s careful gaze. Geralt was certain that if he made a sound or dared to move, the women would be on them both in an instant. Instead he stayed still as a statue, hardly daring to breathe as the first pair of eyes in seven long days that hadn’t narrowed at him in hate traced the lines of his face and body with a studiousness far beyond his years. 

A breath caught in his broken chest as the boy stepped closer, one tiny hand reaching out and taking a lock of dirty silver hair, combing his fingers through the tangled strands. They looked at each other in equal degrees of wonder, each studying the other's face as if committing it to memory. Geralt blinked slowly as the hand patted his cheek, soft and chubby fingers brushing across the stubble on his jaw. It was strange, to feel those little hands abandon the stick in favor of taking his hair again, the boy babbling something Geralt wasn’t entirely sure were even honest attempts at words. He hummed softly in response. How could such innocence be born in such a foul place as this? 

The boy tugged at his hair, small fists tapping his cheeks, and Geralt didn’t even notice the older boy’s approach until his cry of “Dan!” tore across the square. The shout startled the little hands against his face, and Geralt felt something in him break as the boy was snatched away from him, his brother’s stone striking home across the witcher’s cheek.

“Leave him alone, monster!” 

The boy squirmed in his brother’s grip, pulling free, and for one beautiful moment, they stared at each other again… but then the boy was stooping, taking his stick and throwing it to tap harmlessly against Geralt’s leg as he babbled a sound that was almost the word “monster.” That one word hurt worse than anything the boys’ parents could have said or done. 

A woman screamed and the whole village converged on the children as if they were standing outside a monster’s den, oblivious to the way Geralt’s eyes lowered again, defeated and hurting deeper than stones could reach. The women swept the children away, the men snapping questions of the boys, and by the end of the cacophony of noise, the children had been bundled off home and two farmers had taken up posts on either side of him, as if they had to keep him from luring in any more of the village’s youth. 

When Tomas returned they told him what had happened, and Geralt was punished, another brutal beating leaving him with pain streaking across every breath, jagged as the mountain peaks around them. When they’d finished with him, the farmers and Tomas wandered off to the inn, leaving him alone in the square, staring down at the orange glint of sunset across the chips of glass still scattered at his knees. Geralt felt a tremor run through him. 

No one was coming. 

No one had ever come to snatch him from the jaws of danger or death like that boy's brother had done. No one had ever sought him out, fought for him, cared to save him, and in the irrationality of exhaustion and pain he  _ wanted  _ that. He wanted it so badly he felt the ache of that want rise in his throat and shudder across his shoulders. He shed no tears, his body too dehydrated to manage it, but he felt them, dragging his head down with their invisible weight. No one was coming and he would die here, surrounded by hate and pain, endless miles from anyone who would even care, and the thought was equal parts shame and fear.

That night, as the sky grew dark and the moon poured her gentle glow across the square, glinting in the puddled prints of boots and the jagged shards of glass left in the mud, Geralt was still, save the shivers that skittered like brittle autumn leaves across his shoulders, the cold breeze adding another layer over the fevered chill that ached in his bones. Voices from down the street heralded his nightly visitors, and soon there was a crowd gathered around him once more. Geralt ignored them. It was a matter of hours now, not days. If he were lying comfortably with his wounds tended he might linger a little longer, but kneeling here with pain lurking just beneath the numbed buzzing in his brain, Tomas and his friends ready to deal more blows… it would only be hours now. 

Geralt ignored them all until a fist in his hair jerked his head up and he squeezed his eyes shut against the blinding flash of a lantern. He caught a few of Tomas’s words, something about Geralt being a “strange-looking one” before the smith’s voice grew hard, snapping, “Eyes open, beast.” A boot struck his leg, pain lancing up his side, and Geralt’s eyes flickered open with his strained groan, lantern light and blurry images wavering in his vision before he shut them again. Satisfied, Tomas released his grip, letting Geralt’s head drop again. 

Their conversation continued, Tomas doing most of the talking, the sound muffled behind layers of suffering. The few lines he could make out were slippery, their meaning lost despite his hearing them.

“Thought we finally had him about tamed…. of the little ones in close… him as a warnin’.... not worth the risk.”

The voices grew distant and gradually moved away into the dark. 

Music played faintly from the tavern and Geralt clung to it, turning the notes over and over, letting the pain fade to the back of his mind for a time. 

The music stopped and everything sank into darkness again. 

Heavy boots passed him, stumbling on the stones that scattered the ground around the post, and Geralt hardly felt the smith’s glancing blow to his head, the words, “Enjoy your last night, witcher,” slurred overhead. The door slammed shut behind him as he made his way to bed, and Geralt faded into the dark once more.

He wasn’t sure how much time passed before he surfaced again, but something had changed. 

Just one pair of footsteps, light and cautious, and from the wrong direction to be Tomas. The crunch of glass and a breathless curse. 

Geralt let it all wash over him, ignoring anything that wasn’t the black, silent haze that shadowed his thoughts. But then there was a presence in front of him, a touch flickering across his head, his shoulders, his chest, even that barest of contact stinging on his skin.

A dream, maybe.

But it seemed somehow familiar… similar to those gentle little hands that had held his face, looked at him without judging, if only for a moment. Then the presence was gone, the sound of it circling behind him. The yoke jolted, drawing a short hum of discomfort from his throat. Within seconds the presence was back, words spilling from it like the notes of a song as it leaned forward, reaching around him. 

Pain lanced through his right shoulder and he moaned miserably, but a soft pressure at the side of his head and a gentle voice shushing him made his pain drop away to confusion. Geralt tipped his head to the side, nose brushing soft cloth that bore the fresh and wild scent of the road, a hint of something underneath that brought to mind the image of lute strings being carefully tended,  the wood of the instrument treated with a softly scented polish that made it shine proudly in its owner's hands.

“Jask…?” he breathed, and the dream answered.

“Yeah, it’s me. You’re okay. Well, not okay, strictly speaking, but…”

Then there was a soft curse and a real, warm weight draped across his shoulders and Geralt hadn’t even realized he’d had been freed until he forced his eyes open, hands on his shoulders helping him stay upright as they tugged the soft fabric of a cloak around him. Shaky and weak, he managed to raise his head. And there knelt Jaskier, not a dream, but real and here, and he stared in open wonder at those blue eyes. A lump rose in his throat as he tipped forward, resting his head on the bard’s shoulder again and feeling something new trembling through him. 

Someone had come. 

Not by any happy accident or because duty bound them to it. Jaskier had sought him out, found him, and even now was speaking softly to him as Geralt wept, tearless sobs wracking his frame, hardly more than breathless panting. Jaskier had a hand on the witcher’s grimy head, another across his shoulders, just holding, and Geralt was afraid. Afraid the village would wake and snatch his bard away as they had that little boy. 

He took a breath, managed a strangled sound past the ache in his throat, but he couldn’t form the words to warn Jaskier of the danger looming all around them. His bard just held him tighter, and Geralt didn’t care that it hurt to curl himself against the other man’s shoulder, clinging to those gentle words that were breathed soft and sad in his ear. Apologies and assurances, promises that seemed far too good to be true, and his  _ name _ , his name spoken aloud, not the cruel, inhuman titles that had been hurled at him day after day by man and child alike.

Needles began to prick at his skin, dancing along his arms and back in a way he knew would grow to be painful. Right now, though, he just wanted to stay here, his face buried in soft cloth and his friend’s arms encircling him. With only hours left to live, and pain dancing jagged across each gasped sob, he wanted to remember this feeling of safety just as long as he possibly could, wanted to grasp that warmth and keep it close, even if Tomas came storming down on them. 

Maybe… just maybe, he could die  _ here _ , not in the muddy square with jeering and spitting and pain but right here, kneeling in the dark, under a dome of sparkling stars, freedom and friendship wrapped warm around his shoulders, and his bard’s idealistic promises whispered over his head. It wouldn’t be so terrible to die like this, he thought, though he wished he could calm the fear in his own chest by wrapping the bard in a tight hold of his own, so he wouldn’t leave, couldn’t be pulled away. But his hands were broken, swollen, barely responsive and rather than returning the embrace, all he could do was force one numb hand to move, taking a shaky, already-slipping hold of the bard’s jacket at his side. When he did, Jaskier’s breathing fractured in a near-sob.

“No - oh, gods no, Geralt, don’t use your hands, please. You’ll make it worse. Just sit with me a minute, just breathe, and then we’ll get out of here. Just for a minute, then we’ve got to go, all right?”

Geralt let his hand drop, didn’t have the strength to keep his grip anyway. He just stayed still and did as he was told, breathing shakily until the sobs faded and he could breathe without pain biting through his chest. He let himself rest, moored safely by the arms around him, the scent of a wide world beyond this place of pain, and the strong thumping of his friend’s heart. He could tell now that his own heart was pounding far too fast. Usually there would be a rhythm to them, those beats, Jaskier’s swift as a bird in flight, his own slow and steady as a wolf stalking prey. Now, though, the wolf was running, stumbling, lost in the rapid pulse of fever, exhaustion, blood loss… and all the while the bird still somehow outpaced him, flying fast as the wind, but keeping up a reliable, reassuring pace like that of a song.

Geralt sighed, pressed close, and let his mind rest in the certainty that whether he lived or died now, it was enough that someone had come. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reviews make the Sunshine Bard smile and the Whumped Witcher heal! :D


	4. Chapter 4

“I swear, Geralt, if you’re not  _ here _ , I am turning around and taking myself right back to my cosy room in Novigrad.” Jaskier shrugged his pack a little higher on his shoulder, eyed the gathering rain clouds above, and shook his head at the wayward ways of witchers. Almost four months ago at a small crossroads, he had traded a grin and elaborate bow to Geralt in return for the witcher’s reluctant smile and thump on the back, and they had parted ways for the winter, Jaskier to the kinder embrace of coastal sunshine and Geralt for the mysterious destination of Kaer Morhen to the north. Being snowed into a drafty castle sounded fairly miserable to Jaskier, but far be it from him to question witcher family traditions. Before they’d parted, he’d extracted an agreement from Geralt to meet up in Gelibol after the first thaw, to avoid the haphazard wandering that inevitably came with spring and Jaskier’s attempt to reunite with the witcher.

After a week spent charming the generous citizens of Gelibol with no word of the White Wolf, Jaskier was itching to travel, and decided he might as well meet Geralt on the road, rather than waste his coin at the inn waiting. That had been more than two weeks ago, and as his boots squelched in the muddy ruts of the road leading into the small town ahead, Jaskier had begun to feel genuinely curious about the witcher. Not worried, really, because they’d yet to meet a monster Geralt couldn’t vanquish, and there’d been no word from south-bound travelers of any floods triggered by snowmelt or other acts of the gods that he might have been delayed by. Just a little concern was all, tucked away in the downturn of his mouth as he walked; at this rate, Jaskier would be at Kaer Morhen itself before he ran into Geralt, and this fruitless wandering was the reason they’d agreed to meet up in the first place!

At least this quaint little town had a tavern, the weather-faded placard creatively depicting a mug against a crooked backdrop of mountains; warm light already pooled on the ground outside the windows. Although he’d finally caved in last autumn to Geralt’s patronizing commentary and purchased himself a sturdy-yet-elegant pair of boots and a storm-grey cloak, his fingers and toes were still chilled, the damp air only worsening things. 

Inside the warm embrace of the inn, he let the straps of his lute and pack slide from his shoulder into his hand, and surveyed the landscape. Every tavern was different, even ones that sat mere streets from each other. This inn was surprisingly full and cheerful for its size, about a dozen men clustered among the tables, their earnest conversation only hesitating momentarily at Jaskier’s entrance. Clearly they all knew each other - unsurprising in a town with only one main street - and he left them to their chatting for now, spinning slowly on one muddy heel to confirm that, unfortunately, there was no white-haired witcher nursing his ale in the shadows here either. Under his breath, he muttered, “Perfect… that’s perfect.” He’d probably gotten side-tracked on a contract and they’d already passed each other a week ago. Mentally, he bade exasperated farewell to his last hopes of efficient travel this spring.

“Hey, lad - you a bard?” Ah, and there it was, the familiar opening…. Clearly the striking turquoise and goldenrod of his clothing was just as eye-catching as he’d hoped. Jaskier smiled, swung his lute and bag back over his shoulder, and announced, “The renowned bard and poet Jaskier at your service, my good sirs!”

Soon he had an ale in hand, a hearty meal before him, and a seat among the town’s men, who were a hearty bunch of farmers and miners, all curious to hear Jaskier’s news of the southern lands. As he painted images of the decadent courts of Novigrad and the latest scandals, all received with much jesting and laughter, he noticed two of the men had pushed back from the rest, faces somber as they spoke together. That would only have been of fleeting interest to Jaskier, who planned to enjoy this welcome company for another hour or so before heading to his small room for the night, except that a half-syllable caught his ear, tripping up his story of how he’d narrowly avoided discovery by a duke in his lady’s chambers. 

“-cher’s not the kind of thing…”

“I think I bloody well know what a witcher is, Luke, thanks.”

Jaskier twisted in his seat to face them, leaving a few crestfallen faces hanging on the ragged edges of his story, and said, “I do beg your pardon, but did I hear you say ‘witcher’ just now?”

“Aye, we did,” the nearer man replied with a chuckle that broadened the grin in his dark beard. “You know anything about those devils, lad?” Jaskier had been welcomed so warmly into their circle here, he’d nearly forgotten these northern lands were even less hospitable to witchers and other strange folk than the rest of the continent. A lucky thing he hadn’t been singing, and casually started in on a ballad about one of Geralt’s feats.That would have shown him the door very quickly indeed, and sleeping on cold mud was not part of his evening’s plans.

So he shrugged, picked at a few crumbs on his plate to feign indifference, and said, “Just curious. Heard they’ve got a castle or some such nearby. You haven’t, um, seen any of them lately, have you? Heard about one traveling through, or…?”

The lean-faced fellow who’d also been conversing quietly actually laughed, nudging his friend with an elbow. Instead of answering, the bearded man introduced himself as Tomas and his friend as Luke, before standing to look down at Jaskier as if taking the measure of him. A chain glinted at his collar, silver links out of place against soot-grimed skin; as if he’d seen Jaskier’s curiosity, Tomas smiled and lifted the chain over his head, a bandage visible past his shirt sleeve. 

“It’s your lucky night, friend,” he said, dropping a large medallion on the corner of the table between them, the chain pooling around the engraved shape like bright snakes. Jaskier blinked at the masterfully-etched wolf’s-head he’d last seen on his friend’s chest as they smiled at each other at a crossroads, and the little leap of gladness he’d felt at the sight withered and sat sour in the pit of his stomach. “Come on with me.” 

The men strode on, medallion collected in the smith’s broad hand, and Jaskier pushed away from the table hastily, following the pair across the room and into the dark, heart beginning to pick up speed. That medallion should  _ not  _ be here. The only place it belonged was around Geralt’s neck, and in all the years he’d known the witcher, the man had never once taken that medallion off. It was like a coat of arms or a sigil, something that was somehow at the root of who Geralt was, and the sour rot began to spread, twisting his stomach and insides into cold confusion. 

The only light outside was from the odd lantern hanging outside a building, and as they walked from patch to patch, breath fogging slightly, Jaskier wondered if Geralt had been hurt, maybe given the medallion to this Tomas with orders to keep watch for a passing bard who answered to Jaskier’s name? That was the only plausible scenario he could come up with, and even that didn’t fit the confident stride the smith set, or the careless way he let the medallion swing from his hand now. An irregular patter of feet sounded behind them, the rest of the tavern turning out to see Jaskier witness whatever it was Tomas wanted to show him.

Down the street, another wide pool of yellow light lit the area in front of the blacksmith’s shop, and they all angled toward it like dazzled moths. The analogy fit the fluttering that filled Jaskier’s heart and stomach when he saw the dark shape by the far post of the overhang, and realized it was a human figure. The bowed head hung from shoulders stretched cruelly across a yoke fastened to the post, only the bindings keeping the sagging form upright, and only the press of half a dozen villagers close behind him kept Jaskier walking forward.

“Lucky you’ve come along when you did, or you’d have missed your chance,” Tomas was saying as he strode up to the body. He turned with a cheerful grin that felt like poison on Jaskier’s skin. “Never seen a witcher, have you, lad?”

The bound man was filthy, the dark material of his clothes crusted with the mud he knelt in, but gods help him, Jaskier would know the shape of that man anywhere... even with his hair caked black against the side of his head and his body heavy like a corpse when Tomas kicked him with a thick boot. The shove triggered a hollow rattle, one that Jaskier tracked to the crudely-made cowbell nailed to the back of the yoke. Like Geralt was nothing more than a disobedient dog or a dangerous piece of livestock, and for a wild moment, Jaskier wanted to attack the blacksmith, saw himself hammer at the man’s grinning face and crush him into the sucking mud underfoot. When Luke put a hand to his shoulder, he jolted, the breath hissing from him, and the other man said, “Steady there. You’re safe as can be - Tomas has tamed the creature at last, it seems.” The weight of his hand was meant to be reassuring, presumably, but Jaskier wanted to strike his touch away. “Go on, step up where you can see, there’s a lad.” The hand pressed him forward a step, but he locked his knees. If he stepped any closer, he didn’t know what he would do, but it would spell disaster for himself and Geralt. 

Words of condemnation and horror filled his throat like bile, and he made himself focus on what little of Geralt’s bloodied face he could see. Geralt needed him. He had to keep his head right now, had to be so agonizingly careful, like treading on a dragon’s hoard, because the faces and hands around him had done this. Why, he could only guess, but the witcher’s honor and pride would never have permitted this; that meant he’d been unable to stop this from happening, and unable to escape from it afterwards, and Jaskier couldn’t stop his hands shaking, his ears ringing with rage and the urge to take Geralt’s sword to every single person standing around them. 

Tomas must have noticed Jaskier’s desperate scrutiny, because he said, “He’s a strange-looking one, isn’t he?” with a crooked grin. He caught a fistful of pale hair and jerked his captive’s head back into the light. Geralt’s eyes were shut against the glare, his breaths coming short and tight. “Eyes open, beast,” snapped the smith with a hard kick to Geralt’s leg, and the weak groan that reached Jaskier’s ears might as well have been a scream from a man who hardly blinked at the rake of a gryphon’s claws. But his eyes had opened for an instant, an involuntary reaction rather than obedience, Jaskier was sure, and that flicker shook his voice loose again.

“How- How did you catch him?” Jaskier’s voice was horribly uneven, but the others didn’t notice. He needed to get the smith’s harsh hands off Geralt, his attention anywhere else, and his question worked, because Tomas let Geralt’s head drop again, stepping closer to Jaskier to preen and answer. Over the smith’s shoulder, Jaskier watched Geralt sink back to the painful slump of before.

“Took some doing, believe me,” the smith said, hands on his hips, angled so the others would hear him brag. “Came prowling in a week ago claimin’ he’d cleared out a nest my family’s been beating back for as long as I’ve been alive. And we paid him what he’d earned, all right.” Jaskier forced his eyes to focus on the man’s face, trying to look interested past the pounding in his ears as Tomas continued, “Thought we finally had him about tamed, but then he lured one of the little ones in close today, and gods only know what might have happened if the bairn’s brother hadn’t had a sharp eye on him. I meant to keep him as a warnin’ to the rest of his kind, but it’s not worth the risk.”

Tomas didn’t elaborate on what he’d done to try to “tame” the man lashed to his shopfront, but Jaskier could guess well enough. Well enough to make his stomach twist and his fists clench with his desire to beat in the face of the bearded oaf in front of him who just kept talking and laughing. Geralt didn’t look like he could even stand or walk, looked  _ sick _ , and that realization whispered fear through his whole body. There were rocks scattered all around the witcher’s knees, blood showing through the tears in his dark clothing. And all of a sudden, Jaskier realized what that unnatural cant of the witcher’s fingers meant, and had to press a hand to his mouth as he pushed past someone behind him to brace himself against a wall, struggling and then failing to keep his supper down. A week. Seven days and nights of torture, while Jaskier strolled and took his idle time on the road. He could have been here  _ days  _ ago if he’d tried, if he’d had any idea....

Someone thumped his back, chuckling, “No shame in it, bard. If you’d seen what he did to the ones who helped Tomas bring him down…” A low whistle. “Well, he’s a savage beast, to be sure.” Jaskier gulped for air, forehead pressed to damp wood, and viciously thought, _Good._ He hoped it’d scar, badly. And now that he was finally here, too late to stop the men that had put Geralt into this state, he would at least bloody well make sure they didn’t lay another finger on him before Jaskier could get both of them out of this place.

Keenly aware of the many eyes on him, he cleared his throat, spat, then rasped, “I think I need another drink,” to a smattering of friendly chuckles around him. The man behind him laughed aloud and put a hand to his shoulder; he had a salt-and-pepper beard that was mostly salt, and kind eyes that crinkled at the corners when he replied, “There you go - best thing for a bit of a scare. Put a little cheer back in you, eh? That and a bit of song, if you’re up to it?”

He wasn’t, and had no desire to put on a show for a gang of men as monstrous as this, but he forced a wan smile, then a brighter one, seeing a few faces still turned thoughtfully toward their prey. 

“You know what? In honor of this, um… astounding thing you’ve done here,” he said, lifting his voice and spreading his arms to include them all in his announcement. “... suppose I treat you all to a night’s performance? It’s the least I can do, now that you’ve brought this, ah, great feat to my attention.” 

Heads turned in surprise, including Tomas’s, who blessedly took the bait with a broad smile and another hard clap to Jaskier’s back. He made himself bump shoulders companionably with the smith as the older man led the way back to the tavern, their retinue trailing behind. Hoping they’d take his quick glance back as morbid curiosity, he twisted to look at Geralt again, at the hanging head and broken hands, willing him to fight through this, just for another few hours. While he was certain the witcher hadn’t seen him, if he’d even been conscious at all, it still felt like the worst sort of betrayal to keep his feet moving with the other men. 

Inside the warm, firelit tavern, he took a long draught of strong ale, exhaled slowly, then opened his lute’s case. The men were already full of cheer, a few scattered claps rising at the mere sound of the strings being tuned, and Jaskier made himself flash a warm smile over the group as he raised his voice.

“Now, does anyone here happen to know the  _ scandalous  _ tale of a certain fishmonger’s daughter…?”

They did, and joined in with the sort of enthusiasm Jaskier could have wished for every performance he gave, but every chord and strum tore another piece out of his heart. Behind the lively lyrics he could sing in his sleep, he beat an insistent counterpoint into his own mind, reminding himself that every note was another moment that these superstitious brutes had their attention on him, instead of on torturing the man they had harnessed like an animal in their square. So he poured every ounce of spite he possessed - and, oh, that particular cup was  _ overflowing  _ just now - into crafting the most engaging performance he could muster. He let the harsh burn of anger melt his voice into honey, fuel his steps, and keep his hands weaving music until even the most boisterous of the farmers were nodding into their cups. 

He bade them a gracious good night as they ambled off into the dark, letting them pat his back and shake his hand.  _ Were you the one who broke Geralt’s hands? _ he wanted to demand of each friendly face across from him.  _ Did you laugh when he couldn’t strike you back?  _ One of them had the gall to suggest he might spin a little song out of their blacksmith’s valiant act of vanquishing this witcher, and he had to stand there and say, “Ah, well, true art takes time, you know. Let me sleep on it, dream a little, and we’ll see what inspiration comes with the dawn!” 

Finally he stood alone between the empty tables. Wincing, he flexed his left hand, fingertips scraped raw from strangling the chords against the lute’s neck. Even the innkeep had gone upstairs. Jaskier guessed he’d played for nearly two hours, so it had to be getting on toward midnight by now. This was the first quiet moment he’d had since seeing Geralt’s medallion dangled in front of him like a trophy, and the full weight of the horrible situation began to press down on him. 

It must have taken every single able-bodied man in this village to restrain Geralt. And even then, a good half of them should have given their life’s blood in the attempt, if Geralt had been in possession of any kind of blade. Not to mention that from the brief ghastly look he’d gotten earlier, there was nothing more than rope or leather binding the witcher in place, which Geralt should have been able to break free of by basically flexing once or twice. 

So something else was wrong. No, actually, he corrected himself as he stared around the now-darkened tavern -  _ everything  _ was wrong, every plank and shingle of this entire mud-washed town, and gods, it was killing Jaskier to stay where he was, to not run out into the street and cut Geralt free, to make this right. He dug his nails into the wooden back of the chair next to him. Not yet, not yet… The men had only just left and would still be awake in their homes; Tomas would undoubtedly notice him skid to a stop outside his smithy, and if Geralt hadn’t been able to fight free of these men, Jaskier had no hope. 

Slowly, he put away his lute, old habit guiding his hands while his mind flew from one thought to another. If Geralt had passed through this place as he traveled south, he should have had Roach with him. Fleeing a town on foot only worked out if you had the energy and the motivation to move expeditiously for a good while, as many years of hasty departures had taught him. They needed Roach, and Geralt’s swords and all his witchery potions would be with the saddlebags, everything they’d need to get themselves on the road and Geralt on the mend, and to put a healthy distance between this forsaken town and themselves by dawn. 

“I’m coming, Geralt,” he whispered, latching the case shut. “Just hang on. Just a little while longer.” When drawing a slow breath did nothing to calm him, he fastened his cloak anyway, slung his pack and lute over his shoulder, and headed for the door. He’d paid for his room in advance, so the innkeeper wouldn’t care when or where he slept, and shouldn’t notice his absence until morning.

The stables were warm and dark, the air full of the tickle of hay and the earthy undertones of manure. Jaskier trode softly, straining his ears for any sign of a stablehand, but with only four stalls, a town this size likely didn’t bother sending someone to sleep with the horses unless a guest made a fuss over it. He took a cautious step further, and a low whicker met him at the first door. A heavy head bearing a white blaze swung out, huffing a gentle greeting into his hair, and for some reason seeing Roach huge and real in front of him brought all the anger and fear pressing hot behind his eyes, stinging. Her presence was just more confirmation that this wasn’t just a nightmare he’d wake from in a few minutes, and he had no idea what to do next.

The mare nudged into his shoulder again, and he caught her head gently, stroking down her neck as he murmured, “I’m glad to see you, too, girl.” One thing at a time. Geralt needed him to handle this, so handle it he would. One thing at a time… Saddle. Saddlebags. 

They’d had the decency to keep her well fed and watered, and her saddle was just set aside in the straw with her bridle. While saddling a horse wasn’t particularly high on the list of things he could do deftly in the dark, and certainly not one of the more enjoyable, he managed to get things more or less cinched and settled without Roach kicking him, which he was willing to accept as a victory. 

The saddlebags, on the other hand, were nowhere to be found, even in the other stalls. There wasn’t time to keep searching, though, not now that most everyone should be asleep, and Geralt was still waiting out there, hurt and sick and absolutely, unequivocally  _ not  _ dying. 

“Be right back,” he told Roach, and pressed a quick kiss to her nose as thanks for not maiming him. His lute and pack he left in the straw beside her, trusting her not to trample them, and needing both arms free for what he was about to do. The only thing he brought with him was the dagger Geralt had given him last summer, a comforting weight beneath his jacket. 

Perhaps in deference to the passing merchants this town likely depended on, a few lanterns were still lit outside key buildings, including the inn and the smithy, and the solitary trek between those two pools of yellow light was one of the longest of Jaskier’s life. He’d never thought of mud as “too loud” before, but the squelch beneath his boots persisted no matter how carefully he walked.

And then the smithy’s eaves came into view, the lantern’s light just barely reaching the slumped figure against the far post. Trying to channel some of the cat-like grace the witcher always seemed to display, Jaskier forced himself to circle wide around the edge of the light, to where the night would give him some slight cover beside Geralt. He was only steps away when glass tinked a musical note beneath his foot. A whispered curse left his lips as his heart sank at the broken glints of bottle scattered there, the witcher’s potions long since soaked uselessly into the earth.

Geralt didn’t so much as blink when Jaskier whispered his name. Everywhere he reached to try to wake the witcher lay another wound or hurt: the muscles of his shoulders were wrenched tight by the yoke, his hair stiff with blood. Even the accidental brush of Jaskier’s hand against the rough gash on his chest evoked only a small hitch in his strained breathing. Blood had run in rivulets down from the witcher’s wrists, staining the leather bindings that held his swollen hands against the yoke behind the pole. His clothes were soaked with rainwater, and a tremor ran through the powerful frame even as Jaskier knelt there. He could feel helplessness rising in his throat and behind his eyes again.

“All right. It’s all right. I’ll just…” He scrubbed a hand down his face, fixed his eyes on the mud pushed up into ridges around Geralt’s knees.  _ One thing at a time.  _ “I’m gonna get you out of this.” He drew his dagger and set to work on the rope binding Geralt’s ankles behind the post, drawing on the well of anger to focus his mind. Legs first, then he’d take care of the bell. That would let him work on the more complicated problem of the yoke without fear of waking Tomas and his merry band of sadists. 

The dagger was sharp, and he soon threw the rope aside. He’d worked through the problem of the bell as he crossed the street, mud sucking at his boots, and he carefully held the clapper between his fingers, scraping up a generous handful of mud with the other hand. Within a minute or two, he’d packed the cowbell full, the clapper buried safely and silently within. He brushed his hands off on his trousers, not caring about the stains. And still there had been no sound from the street, from the blacksmith’s home, nor from the witcher himself, and this was nothing like the calm, comfortable silence the man usually kept. 

Worse than the silence, though, was the small syllable of discomfort that fell from the witcher’s lips when Jaskier stood and jostled against the wooden beam, and he swiftly dropped to eye-level in front of Geralt again, murmuring, “Ssh, I’m sorry, Geralt, I’m sorry, it’s all right…” The witcher hadn’t even opened his eyes, though, his face a shadowed canvas of blood and dirt, and it was with haste just this side of desperation that Jaskier reached over the shivering shoulders to start cutting through the leather knots. “I’m sorry, I know this is a bit awkward, but…” He slid his other arm past Geralt to hold the yoke steady, letting the silver head rest heavily on his shoulder. The witcher’s skin put off a frightening amount of heat, and Jaskier pulled in a shaky breath, continuing to let hushed words spill from his lips just in case the other man could hear them and take even a speck of comfort from them. “You’re gonna be all right. We’re gonna get you out of here, gonna find a lovely town very, very far away with lots of ale and friendly barmaids and get you patched up… Nice hot bath, a good night’s rest… How does that sound?” The first set of straps fell away, the yoke wobbling in Jaskier’s hand as Geralt’s arm dropped to hang by his side. 

The motion pulled a louder moan from the witcher, a hum that traveled through his chest to the bard’s, and Jaskier quickly turned his head, pressing his cheek against the grimy hair.

“Shh, shh… Almost done. Almost done, I promise. Just  _ please  _ be quiet, Geralt, please...” 

The last straps were the hardest to sever, of course, thanks to balancing the yoke and Geralt’s weight while sawing at them, but finally they fell away. The length of wood made a dull thud against the ground, and Jaskier’s eyes darted to the darkened windows for long, breathless seconds as he wrapped his arms around Geralt’s dead weight, holding him up as he waited for disaster to strike.

Then the witcher's head rolled against his shoulder, the tiniest tickle of breath against his neck carrying a weak, “Jask…?” to his ears, and it was quite possibly the most wonderful thing he’d ever heard. The not-quite-panic that had filled his thoughts for this whole endeavor ran headlong into relief, and the mix went straight to his head in a dizzy rush; he sat back on his feet, bringing Geralt the few inches with him, and said, “Yeah, it’s me. You’re okay. Well, not okay, strictly speaking, but…” The damp of the witcher’s shirt had soaked through Jaskier’s, a patch of sharp chill in the breeze, and the younger man cursed himself, sheathing his dagger and fumbling for the clasp of his cloak so he could wrap it close around Geralt’s shoulders. 

The warmth seemed to rouse the witcher further, a trembling effort lifting his head away from Jaskier to bob in confusion at the ground before his gaze landed on Jaskier himself. For a moment bloodshot amber eyes met his, disbelieving and wide.

But instead of growling questions or sitting back to issue gruff instructions, as Jaskier had expected (and hoped, honestly), Geralt just shut his eyes and dropped his head back onto Jaskier’s shoulder with a painful inhalation that brought another in its wake, and another. In anyone else, those dry shudders would have almost certainly been audible sobs, maybe out of relief or pain or fear. But this was Geralt, and Jaskier didn’t know what to do except to rest a hand on the matted head and stay put, murmuring,“Geralt? Geralt, it’s me. It’s just Jaskier. Don’t… Don’t worry, all right? I’ve got you, I’ve got Roach ready, and-”

The jagged piece of sound Geralt made nearly broke Jaskier’s heart, and he tightened his arms around the other man, no longer doubting the reason for the desperate gasps that he wasn’t all that far from joining himself. This must have been a harrowing week, even for someone as stolid as the witcher. What man alive wouldn’t be terrified, at least inside, at the prospect of being tortured to death like a rabid animal, the only faces around you cheering on the ones that were killing you? 

Geralt’s face pressed painfully hard against his collarbone, an unconscious effort to find refuge; he smelled of blood and vomit, his hair sticky with ale, and Jaskier kept talking softly, blurring eyes on the empty forge ahead of him, voice coming hoarse now. 

“It’s okay. Shh…You’re okay. Oh, I am so, so sorry, Geralt. I’m so sorry. I’d have been here, I would have, and I’m so sorry I wasn’t... but I’m here now, I’m not going anywhere, not without you.” 

One of the witcher’s arms came up, the first real movement he’d made, a fumbling attempt to match the tight embrace Jaskier had him wrapped in, but he couldn’t manage with his wrecked hands. 

“No - oh, gods no, Geralt, don’t use your hands, please. You’ll make it worse. Just sit with me a minute, just breathe, and then we’ll get out of here. Just for a minute, then we’ve got to go, all right?” The feeble grip released his jacket, and Jaskier closed his eyes in relief that at least Geralt was hearing and comprehending him now. The fever-heat rolling off the other man was alarming, especially contrasted with the cool evening air, and Jaskier was excruciatingly aware of the need to get out, get away from the blank stare of all the windows around them. All it would take is one farmer with insomnia or an unnaturally early riser, and their chances of escaping dropped pretty close to nil. But the wounded man’s breathing had begun to calm; he was coming back to himself, and if all Geralt needed to get his feet back under him, metaphorically, was for Jaskier to sit and hold him for another few seconds, that was a price he would gladly pay. 

When the other man’s breaths had evened out to a more steady pace, Jaskier decided it was time to try the whole walking and escaping stage of his cobbled-together plan. Geralt seemed to have slipped back into the daze of before, but the moment Jaskier shifted, trying to work out how best to get them both upright, the witcher jolted against him; a clumsy arm swung up around Jaskier’s side, likely still numb from the bindings, but urgent nonetheless. His eyes were glassy and seeking, as if already looking for Jaskier walking into the distance. If he hadn’t already felt the fever burning through the witcher, that bereft, wide-open expression would have convinced him: Geralt had been rendered armorless in every way, which made Jaskier all the more determined to get him away from here  _ now _ .

“It’s all right,” he soothed, wondering just how much of his surroundings Geralt was even aware of at this point. “Look, I know you feel horrible, but we really need to go now. Roach is waiting. All you have to do is lean on me and I’ll do the rest.” The words came out several shades more confident than he felt, but the witcher nodded slowly, leaning back to give Jaskier room. There was no way to do this that wouldn’t cause the injured man more pain, so Jaskier was gentle but firm as he pulled one bloody arm over his shoulders, whispering apologies as his grip slipped on Geralt’s raw wrist. 

The moment they stood, Jaskier had to brace himself in the mud as Geralt’s leg gave out beneath him, the witcher’s free arm wrapped tight around his chest as he groaned and tried to hold onto Jaskier’s shoulder. Somehow, the bard kept them both upright, swaying in the full light of the smithy’s lantern now as Geralt pulled in air and mud shifted under Jaskier’s boots. In the direct light, the wide bloodstain on the witcher’s thigh was suddenly visible for an instant before the cloak swung forward to hide it again, and Jaskier peered worriedly over at the other man’s face. How much harm had this town of bigots managed to inflict before Jaskier got here? But Geralt only gave a single curt nod to Jaskier’s searching look, urging them onward and away from this place, and Jaskier wholeheartedly seconded the motion. 

Each step was a struggle. Geralt could hardly bear any weight on that leg at all, which left his full weight on Jaskier every other step, and he knew that if the witcher’s limbs weren’t still numb, they were in the throes of the world’s worst case of pins-and-needles, which were probably more like daggers in this case. But he was upright (mostly), and moving, and while Jaskier’s heart was still galloping away at the thought of someone spotting them, each ungainly step was another step closer to Roach and to safety. 

By the time they reached the stable’s threshold, Jaskier was surprised his heart hadn’t simply burst from a combination of effort and suspense. As he maneuvered them both inside, a light haze of dust stirred up beneath their feet like tiny constellations, barely visible in the gloom, and through that veil, he managed to make out a large drift of straw piled in the corner and angled toward it. They both needed a rest before they tackled the challenge of getting Geralt up into the saddle; the witcher’s jaw was clenched so tightly it made Jaskier’s own teeth hurt to look at him, his face washed corpse-pale under the blood. Once he’d lowered the other man to the straw, Jaskier collapsed beside him, puffing, “Thank goodness. We’ll just… take a moment...” He feared his lower back might never forgive him for the last ten minutes. 

“How did you find me?” The witcher’s voice was nothing more than a faint rasp in the dark beside him, but Jaskier would have danced if he’d thought his legs would hold him. 

“Oh, Geralt - it is unbelievably good to hear your voice. You have no idea.” A beat later, he realized Geralt quite likely had a very clear idea how good it felt to hear a friend’s voice, and he hurried to reply, “I, um, found you because I was looking for you, I suppose. Got bored at Murivel and thought I’d stretch my legs to come and meet you. I wasn’t expecting to come this far, of course, but I figured our paths would have to cross at some point. Unless you’d gone gallivanting off without me, of course, in which case I would have continued to accumulate blisters until I found you.” He stopped for breath, then added, “And I’m very glad I did. Find you, that is.” 

Weariness had begun to pull at his limbs, and he pushed himself up instead, drawing a deep breath. This escape was only half-done, and the name of Jaskier the bard was not known the continent over for leaving things only half-done. Stiffly, he went to Roach’s stall and led her out, chuckling when she immediately tossed his hand from her bridle in favor of standing over her master to snuffle directly into his ear. As Jaskier came up beside her, Geralt lifted a hand to her questing muzzle, murmuring, “Hey, Roach.” 

Jaskier waited a few moments, then ventured, “I’m sorry to interrupt this fond reunion, but we’d better finish our catching up on the road. I don’t know what time murderous mountain folk tend to rise in the morning, but I’d like to be many, many miles away when they do.”

Weary amber eyes opened again and a glance up at the saddle drew a frown across Geralt’s pale face. He started to speak, but only got as far as, “We’ll need-” before his hoarse voice broke off with a series of rough, dry coughs. Jaskier scrambled to find the water flask in his pack, silently cursing the smith and all his cronies who hadn’t thought their prisoner worthy of something as vital as water, and pressed the half-full flask into Geralt’s palms, holding it steady. He took several large, thirsty gulps and the coughs faded to breathless gasps. When he spoke again, it was in broken pants, distilled to the bare minimum of words necessary. 

“Swords… in th’smithy.”

So that’s where the saddlebags must have been stashed, probably turned upside down and pawed through for whatever coin and goods they could find. That smithy was the last place he wanted to return to right now, especially because it would mean leaving Geralt here, defenseless. Capping the flask, turning it in his hands uneasily, Jaskier said, “Geralt, I know you’re attached to them and all… I mean, it’s like my lute, I suppose, but…” The witcher only shook his head fractionally against the straw.

“They’ll follow… soon as they wake.” And that put a whole different light on the situation, one Jaskier immediately hated. He’d been leaning on the hope that once the smith woke up to find his prize missing, he’d rage and fuss but ultimately chalk it up as a loss, leaving Jaskier to whisk Geralt somewhere more welcoming without the threat of pursuit. Geralt was rarely wrong about who was likely to cause them trouble, however, and maybe just the sight of the witcher with sword in hand would be enough to scare off these vigilantes who clearly hadn’t gone toe-to-toe with an armed witcher last time. Frustration hissed through his teeth, but he nodded and tucked the flask close to the witcher’s side, saying, “I’ll be right back. Roach, if anybody but me comes in, dispatch them quietly and discreetly, all right?”


	5. Chapter 5

As he ventured back out into the street, every inch of Jaskier’s skin crawled, although he was certainly less noisy and less suspicious walking out by himself. He supposed if he was stopped, he could always say he was taking a stroll to compose their stupid song or something. Knowing Geralt was waiting behind him this time helped speed his steps, and he scanned the smithy hastily as soon as he crossed under the eaves. 

The knife-sized pinchers that loomed into view over his head sent him reeling backward, nearly colliding with the worktable behind him. For some unholy reason, Tomas had chosen to display his hunting trophies right over the forge, a row of dark and glimmering insectoid heads, each at least as large as Jaskier’s own. Cursing the man, feeling the extra dozen eyes staring dead and accusing at him, the bard caught his breath and looked around. 

The saddlebags were bunched on a table in the corner, the swords still in their case propped nearby. As he’d feared, the bags were nearly empty, and Geralt’s little leather-bound box of potions was open on the table, only a handful of little jars and a pouch or two of ingredients left. The box went into the saddlebags, which went over Jaskier’s shoulder, and he gingerly lifted the swords into his arms, wincing as the crossguards rattled against each other. He was about to hurry back, when he caught sight of a familiar bundle further down the workbench, pinpricks of light shining back from the metal studs in Geralt’s armor. With a fretting glance over his shoulder and a litany of whispered curses, the bard gathered up the breastplate and everything else he could see, praying he didn’t leave Geralt with only one bracer or something equally annoying. 

Thankfully, Tomas seemed to have drunk himself into a deep and peaceful slumber, and Jaskier clinked back to the stable without being discovered. Heaving a huge sigh of relief, he shouldered the door shut behind him and headed for Roach, saying, “If we’ve forgotten anything else, I will buy whatever it is new at the next town we come to, but-” From the shadows in front of him, the mare’s dark head turned to him from far too low, and he stopped short, disoriented. A hard blink showed the mare lying with her legs tucked neatly beneath her, broad back barring the path between him and the witcher’s prone form. 

“Roach?” He set his armful down and ventured carefully past the nervous-eared mare, only to see Geralt curled on his side, breathing shallowly, the flask untouched beside him. “Oh, Geralt…” The water from earlier had already come back up, the witcher’s face still clenched against the nausea and the pain that had probably prompted it. The slitted gaze met his briefly before Geralt sighed and closed his eyes with a grimace. 

Jaskier held his tongue and turned to get the saddlebags and their other supplies fastened, giving Geralt a moment to regain composure if he needed it. Roach seemed to understand things weren’t as they should be and was unusually patient with his fumbling and the bulky saddlebags, and when he finally had everything in place, the mare was still on her knees, nosing the straw near Geralt’s hand.

“Okay… Roach, stay?” he said tentatively, before he turned back to Geralt. “We’ve got to get you in the saddle before our luck runs out and somebody wakes up. Can, um, can you manage, you think, if I help you?” The weary look the witcher sent his way didn’t need words, and Jaskier ruefully said, “Right. No choice. Yeah. So let’s just…”

It was a mark of just how bad off Geralt was that he didn’t object to Jaskier helping him sit up. Geralt’s energy seemed to have been utterly spent on the arduous trek from the post to the stables, and even with Roach conveniently half her usual height, it was a slow and painful process to get the other man into the saddle. Jaskier kept both hands on the witcher to keep him upright as Roach regained her footing. He swung the stable door wide, then hurried back to carefully mount behind the witcher and nudge the mare forward. 

Their passage through the town was quiet and unremarkable, Roach’s hooves muted in the drying mud as they passed the sleeping houses and golden pools of light. Jaskier was less than comfortable, riding on the saddlebags with his chin resting on Geralt’s shoulder and one arm threaded past him to reach the reins, but he kept his mouth shut. The witcher was undoubtedly worse off; he was pretty sure Geralt had a few broken ribs on top of everything else, based on the way he’d slowly begun to hunch forward, arm wound tight around his middle. A long ride on horseback was the last thing he needed right now, Jaskier was sure, but it was also the only way to save both their lives, so he compromised by keeping Roach to an easy walk. 

The little mining town melted into the night behind them like a nightmare after waking, but torn pieces still clung to them in Geralt’s mute agony and the sway of his hanging head. After a while, Jaskier’s heart returned to its usual pace and he stopped listening behind them for furious shouts in the distance, instead listening to the hitch in the other man’s breath when the road dipped. The embrace of the forest was welcome, sealing them into the faint chorus of night insects and the occasional hush of leaves. He looped his free arm around Geralt’s waist to help keep him in the saddle, trying to brace him a little against the constant motion of Roach’s gait. Briefly, he thought about encouraging the witcher to sit up and lean back against him, to take some of the strain off his ribs, but was loath to disrupt the barely-tolerable level of pain Geralt seemed to have finally achieved. 

So he did what he excelled at, and filled the silence instead. He told Geralt all about his winter, how well he was received at Novigrad’s courts, and who he romanced there, about his stop at Murivel and the gossip he’d gathered, and a lot of other details Geralt probably had zero interest in. But words kept the silence and its grave, frightening thoughts at bay, so Jaskier kept at it.

Having just finished a wonderfully ribald recounting of Lady So-and-so and Lord Whatsit’s extramarital escapades that had shocked and amused all of Novigrad this season, a monologue Geralt would normally have cut off in its earliest stages, Jaskier paused the flow of storytelling to trade the reins between hands. When he went to scrub his itching palm against his jacket, his fingertips grazed Geralt’s leg, and came away wet and dark. After a bewildered moment, he saw the faint glimmer of fresh blood soaked into Geralt’s trouser leg, barely visible under the shrouded darkness of the trees, and cursed quietly. 

“Well, that’s not good,” he sighed, and craned his neck anxiously to see ahead. If one wound had reopened, the rest were probably in a similar state, and the witcher had sunk so low his hair nearly brushed against Roach’s mane. If the villagers decided to lose valuable working hours of daylight to come after them, Jaskier would just have to figure something out then; right now, it was time to get Geralt somewhere he could rest and start putting that remarkable witcher constitution to work. “Just need to find someplace to tuck ourselves away for the night,” he said aloud, patting the cloaked shoulder in front of him. “Or what’s left of it, at least.” 

Geralt stirred slightly, restless, as if seeking a less painful posture, as he had done intermittently while they rode. Whatever unhappy doze he’d fallen into, Jaskier hoped it would give Geralt a bit of relief from his injuries. But then the witcher’s voice rumbled under his hand, rough and strained.

“No… Keep going.” 

“What?” Jaskier leaned out but couldn’t catch the other man’s eye. “Geralt, you’re barely able to stay on Roach as it is. Surely we’re far enough by now.” 

The witcher’s head turned just slightly, addressing him over one slumped shoulder. 

“Tomas... He’ll hunt you down…” Jaskier opened his mouth, ready to argue, but the other man wasn’t done speaking, despite the slight slur that betrayed how much pain he was in. “...have to get you… somewhere safe.”

“Oh, right - of course. Silly me. And here I thought _I_ was in the middle of getting _you_ somewhere safe! Honestly....” He pulls off possibly the most daring escapade of his colorful career, saving his witcher companion from almost certain death at the hands of a ragged band of ruffians, and the man has the cheek to say he’s the one doing the saving? “You’re still bleeding, Geralt. I know you’re nigh well indestructible, but I’d think even you need _some_ blood left in you.”

Geralt’s voice had sunk to a low murmur, nearly lost behind the steady thump of Roach’s hooves on the packed earth of the road, and there was something almost apologetic in his tone.

“That’s… not ‘mportant… anymore.” 

“What are you talking about? Of course it’s imp-…” Mid-sentence, the odd note of calm in Geralt’s voice sank in, and Jaskier broke off abruptly, chilled to his heart, before stammering, “No. No, don’t you dare even talk that way. You’re just… you’re exhausted and hurting, and that’s totally understandable, and that’s _why_ we’re gonna be stopping just as soon as I can find us someplace decent.”

And of course Geralt always had to take charge, even with broken ribs and gods-knew what other injuries, and started in with, “You need-” and Jaskier cut him off without hesitation, refusing to acknowledge his heart’s rapid pace as fear when anger was so ready to hand. 

“No, Geralt - what _I_ need to do is find us a place to rest for a while, and what _you_ need to do is shut up, breathe, and let me take care of things for once, all right?” That probably came out a bit louder than was prudent, considering the genuine threat of someone coming up the road after them, but when he fell silent, so did Geralt. Whether he was bowing to Jaskier’s logic or saving his breath, the bard wasn’t sure, but either way it left the witcher doing as he was instructed, and Jaskier told himself that was a good sign. At least Geralt was resting again, however reluctantly. 

Whichever deity watched over bossy witchers and long-suffering bards was smiling on them, it seemed. Within half an hour, the trees had opened up again and the meager starlight outlined the dark shape of someone’s abandoned barn - or at least, Jaskier assumed it was abandoned, based on the many missing pieces of roof and the door hanging wide open. Roach needed only the slightest touch of the reins to turn her head toward the small building, and the bard firmed his arm around Geralt’s waist as the ground turned from flat earth to long grass beneath her hooves. 

Geralt must have noticed the change in terrain, it being pretty much the only thing along their path that his lowered gaze could catch. He took in a breath and growled, “Jaskier…” but the bard simply replied, “Uh-huh. You’re welcome,” and reined Roach in once they were safely enclosed within the barn’s walls. 

Inside, the disarray and poor condition of… well, everything, confirmed Jaskier’s belief the building was long since abandoned. The walls were weathered and bowed, but sturdy enough. The roof allowed a generous view of the constellations, but the furthest wall still held a few disheveled bales of straw, grass sprouting beneath and around them. Not the most upscale place they’d ever slept, but honestly not the seediest, either, and he dropped the reins in deep relief.

Dismounting without the benefit of the stirrups was resolved by Jaskier awkwardly sliding backwards off the mare’s rump, but he returned to the witcher’s side quickly. Any thought of complaining over the ache in his legs vanished when he reached up to help Geralt down; the older man’s face was set into hard lines of suffering, lips tight and pale, strands of dirty, silver hair hanging loose over his face, though the majority of it was still tied back. Slowly, and with grunts of pain and effort on both sides, they managed to get him down and Geralt stood for a moment, an arm hooked over the saddle as he caught his breath. Jaskier hovered close at hand, waiting for the glance that would tell him Geralt was ready to move again. 

“Take your time,” he cautioned. “Although I expect you probably want to get laid down and more comfortable soon, and you _are_ still bleeding, so maybe take your time in a sort of, um, expeditious fashion...” 

With the way the witcher’s legs shook and the amount of pain he was clearly in, the last thing Jaskier expected him to do was to pull his silver sword from its sheath before abruptly lurching a step or two away. What was probably supposed to be him leaning against the wall wound up looking more like an attempt to crash straight through it, but Geralt somehow managed to stay upright, leaning heavily against the aged wood. The sword hung from his right hand, the index finger swollen and purpled against the bright metal of the hilt, but even after a few shaky breaths, the blade’s tip never lifted to any ready stance, in fact it dug into the grassy ground, more a crutch than a weapon at this point. 

A bewildered look through the doors showed Jaskier only a serene, starlit field, the road a thin strip across the grass. Somewhere above them, an owl hooted. There was nothing to be seen or heard to warrant Geralt’s sudden readiness, and as he stood looking blankly at the witcher, Jaskier suddenly remembered the unnatural heat that had burned against his hand as they traveled. His stomach twisted uneasily, and he took a breath. 

“Geralt?” he said quietly, taking a careful step forward. “Geralt, what’s wrong?”

In the shadows he could just make out the witcher’s jaw working for a moment before the words reached him, stiff and hoarse.

“Go. Ride until you... reach the nearest city. You’ll be safe there.” 

Jaskier blinked, staring back at the unwell man in front of him, something twisting into a hard, cold knot in his gut. When Geralt said nothing else, merely leaning on his sword and the wall and looking horribly ill, Jaskier scoffed loudly, hand landing on his hip.

“I’ll do no such thing! You look like a passing moth would knock you down, so if you’re trying to protect me, this is a pretty poor demonstration.” 

“Jask-”

“You know, I’m trying to bear in mind that you’re feverish and clearly not thinking with your usual sterling faculties, but you realize I did just spend _all night_ rescuing you? I’m not expecting-”

“Jaskier-”

“- gushing proclamations of gratitude, of course, but it would be nice not to be told to ‘shove off’ the minute you get your feet on the ground agai-”

“I’m _dying_ , Jaskier!” 

The blunt statement erased whatever he’d been about to say. The forgotten words sat dry and empty on Jaskier’s tongue, and he swallowed them while Geralt looked back at him with tired eyes that were honest and deeply sorry. For a moment everything trembled inside and around Jaskier, and he had to touch his fingertips to Roach’s side to find himself again, looking up to see Geralt continue, eyes now closed, low voice weighted with exhaustion. 

“If he finds you with me… he’ll kill you.” Then he added in a rougher tone, “I’ll thank you not to make me spend the little time I have left... watching you die.” 

Some mangled blend of a scoff and a sob left Jaskier’s lips without permission; he raised a hand between them without any idea what he meant to do with it, and it hung there while he fought with the certainty in his friend’s face. 

Geralt had walked away from worse than this (though Jaskier didn’t yet know the full extent of “this”, whispered a poisonous voice in his mind). He was just shaken up and hurting, and if he just got a chance to rest… But Geralt’s tenuous stance, the way nothing but the wall and a blade buried in the dirt held him up, the way he’d had to scrape together enough strength to try and tell Jaskier this in something like his usual gruff tone… Fear swelled tight and evil in his throat, riding a bitter tinge like mourning, and the bard felt something else fierce bloom in his chest, nearly suffocating him. He stared at the polished blade dripping moonlight, followed it up the tense, trembling arm to Geralt’s pale face, and forced out, “No.” 

He dragged in a drowning breath, and repeated, “No,” before stepping forward on numb legs to close his hand around the sword’s hilt, pulling it from Geralt’s broken hand. He set it aside and took the other man’s arm over his shoulders again. “You,” he said in a voice that hardly sounded like his own, thick and desperate, as he began to walk them slowly to the refuge of the straw by the wall, “... you are _not…_ gonna die.” Geralt stayed quiet, save for the rough breaths of struggle as he tried to walk with a useless leg and broken ribs and- “Maybe that’s how it works... for witchers, for other witchers, you- you run into something that leaves you a bloody mess and that’s it. You just-” He held Geralt up with shaking arms, kicking the straw into something vaguely person-sized across the earth. “Well, that’s not gonna happen. You hear me? You are gonna lie down and rest, and you are gonna let me take care of you, you stupid oaf, and you’re going to be yelling at me come morning to wake up and get going like always.” 

As Jaskier tried to lower Geralt to the makeshift bedding, the witcher’s wounded leg buckled, nearly pulling the bard down with him; Jaskier barely managed to control their fall, his knees hitting the ground with jarring force, but he got Geralt safely laid out on his back and watched the unsteady rise and fall of his chest for a moment before he stood and stumbled back to Roach. The bedroll - he needed to get Geralt comfortable, needed to find out just how badly he was hurt… It took two tries to untie the bedroll because his hands wouldn’t stop shaking, and he spat a curse when he fumbled his own pack from his hands.

Finally, he got everything gathered up and set the armful in the straw as he knelt beside Geralt again. The thin bedroll he slid beneath Geralt’s head before turning back to his meager pile of supplies, heart pounding. 

“Don’t panic.” 

The witcher’s voice was like gravel, his eyes still closed, but the exasperated tone was such a familiar part of their conversations that the lump returned to Jaskier’s throat, and he forced words past it, snapping, “Oh, now you’re telling me _not_ to panic? How else am I going to respond when you tell me you think you’re _dying_? You should have said something hours ago, and I could have-” He broke off, shaking his head angrily as he set the bandages and water flask to one side and looked back at Geralt in the meager light filtering through the roof and walls. There was a wash of dried blood and mud down the side of the witcher’s face, blending with the blood that streaked his chin from split and cracked lips.

“Do you… Can you manage some water? You must need it, I mean - when was the last time you even had anything to drink? Apart from what you had from the flask?” He turned to fetch up the flask as he spoke, and looked back to see two slivers of gold angled up at him as Geralt studied him momentarily before closing his eyes again. The frown seated heavily on his brows lifted in dark amusement as he slurred, “Rained a few days ago…”

The witcher’s typical gallows humor didn’t sit well in the bard’s heart, not against the image of Geralt resorting to rainwater to stay alive. Uncapping the flask, he said, “Just have a little, not as much as last time,” and he reached to help lift Geralt’s head, but the witcher raised one heavy hand as if to wave him off.

“No,” he said with a grimace, cursing softly as his broken fingers landed on the ground again, and Jaskier felt an overpowering urge to take hold of the witcher’s shoulders and shake him cross-eyed. Instead, he thinned his lips and lifted Geralt’s head anyway, arm careful and steady under his shoulders as he said, “One swallow. That’s all.” The witcher hesitated, probably leery of drinking anything after the unenviable experience of vomiting past broken ribs, but Jaskier held his ground, not caring if he sounded like he was begging. Between the fever and everything else, Geralt needed water desperately if he were to rally from his injuries. “Geralt, let me help you! Please!”

Jaskier’s shoulders slumped in relief as the witcher gave in, nodding slightly and letting Jaskier hold the flask to his lips. He drank a little, nowhere near as much as he clearly needed, but it was enough for now and Jaskier lowered him back to the bundled cloth. He’d just turned to cap the flask when Geralt murmured softly, “You already have.” Jaskier looked back at him, confused, and the witcher added, “... helped me.” _Not nearly enough_ , the bard thought bitterly, not nearly what he wished he could have done by arriving earlier, by preventing all of this, but before he found words, Geralt went on, low and thoughtful, “No one’s ever... come to a witcher’s rescue.” 

The bard found a small smile creeping onto his face, and he replied, “It’s not as if you need it very often, but I do strive to be a trend-setter. Although I would have picked a slightly grander establishment if I’d had my say...” He cast a disappointed look at the dark sky peering down on them through the jagged holes in the roof, then at the grass growing up around them inside the barn, which Roach had begun grazing on. When the bard looked down at the silver-haired witcher again, Geralt was studying the broken boards of the wall ahead, frown smoothed out just a little by the hint of surprise in his voice. 

“No one’s ever… bothered to try.” And wasn’t that a kick in the chest, realizing that Geralt of Rivia had expected to die in that muddy street, because there was nobody to wonder where he’d gone, let alone bother to seek him out and try to help him. Not even Jaskier, because they’d agreed to meet many miles south of here, and he hadn’t expected the bard to come looking. 

“And I’m not done trying, either,” he replied, forcing a little cheer into his voice, difficult as that was past the memory of Geralt’s broken hand clinging to his jacket, the disbelieving gasps against his shoulder. “But I’m going to need more water than this.” He shook the flask, the few swallows of water sloshing inside. He remembered hearing a little stream not too long before he’d spotted the barn in the distance, and if he brought both flasks, along with the little cookpot from the saddlebags, that ought to be enough to start cleaning and dressing Geralt’s wounds. 

With a gentle pat to Geralt’s shoulder, he stood, about to assure the witcher he’d be back very soon, but Geralt suddenly said, “Wait!” and Jaskier dropped to his knees again, heart hammering. “Take the silver,” the witcher said, and his eyes roved past the bard to the sword propped by the wall where Jaskier had left it. “It’s lighter. Keep it with you.” Before Jaskier could ask why, Geralt looked up at him, gaze sincere. “When he comes, keep your distance. He’s strong… but you’re quicker. Give yourself room to maneuver… Only strike if you’re sure. Don’t let him get in close.”

Not trusting his voice, Jaskier nodded, and the golden eyes slipped shut again on a soft sigh that sounded like relief. The chestnut mare nickered and nibbled at his sleeve as if to reprimand him for leaving her saddle and baggage in place, and he felt a pang of guilt for simply taking her reins, leaving one hand free for the silver sword. 

Lifting the blade was a strange feeling, almost like being a child again and looking over his shoulder as he crept into the kitchen to steal sweets, a guilty sort of awe at its weight balanced in his hand. He spent a moment too long there, and the creeping sense of desperation wrapped around his heart again as he looked between the blade and its owner lying motionless in the straw. One thing at a time, he reminded himself, turning to lead Roach out of the barn. Geralt hadn’t expected to be saved at all; maybe he just needed a little tending to see that he wasn’t as bad off as he felt. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note:  
>  So we got a fancy review from a “guest” who raised some concerns regarding realism. Thought I’d give ya’ll a Behind the Scenes look at our research! Having not read the books or played the games, we are working with Netflix’s version of the characters and whatever I could learn off of the game’s wiki pages regarding potions and Witcher lore. 
> 
> 1\. Why didn’t Geralt bring his swords into the inn with him when Roach was clearly uneasy and he’s in hostile territory?  
> \- In the first episode, Geralt does not bring his swords into the tavern at Blaviken. While Roach wasn’t quite as uneasy in Blaviken, it was clearly hostile territory. We thought that bringing his weapons inside would be considered more threatening and like he’s looking for a fight, similar to Renfri’s man who stands up raring to brawl with his blade at his hip. In our fic, Geralt intended to step in, get a drink, and step out. He expected them to be hostile and ungrateful, but not quite as organized and violent. 
> 
> 2\. Why does Geralt seem so “nerfed” in this fic? Taken out by regular dudes and not even soldiers.   
> \- We were aiming to be realistic in terms of damage and attacks. In Posada, Geralt is knocked out in one hit by an unknown elf and stays out for quite some time (long enough to get dragged back to base and tied up). In real life, being out for so long usually comes hand in hand with brain damage so we went with concussed and dizzy rather than unconscious entirely for long periods of time  
> \- Geralt clearly could have handled himself even without his blades. He had a nice chair leg to beat people with and would have escaped relatively unscathed if not for Tomas’s hammer blow. If Geralt can let an elf sneak up on him mid-fight, he might miss one hit from behind when surrounded. That one hit was a lucky hit for sure and if Tomas had aimed any differently or with any less force, he would’ve been doomed. As it was, Tomas’s blow did cause a major concussion (not a split skull though as Geralt considers). If you look up the symptoms of a concussion, they include the nausea, extreme pain, dizzy spells, and periods of blackout that Geralt experiences for that first day. 
> 
> 3\. Why not add a poisoning element to slow Geralt down before the brawl, you know, something?  
> \- We actually did consider poison but it just didn’t fit. Firstly, because with enhanced senses, Geralt could probably detect the poison before ingesting much, if any, of it. Secondly, Tomas or the bartender would have to know enough about witchers and their weaknesses to get the dosage right (probably way more than the average human dose). And Thirdly, Tomas or the bartender would have to have that much poison readily available at the drop of a hat. They didn’t know Geralt was coming through until he turned up at the inn. It just didn’t suit Tomas’s character, the burly “Punch first, ask questions later” sort of mindset didn’t mesh with poison usage. 
> 
> I have more Behind the Scenes research to put at the end of a later chapter too. Don’t want to give anything away before then!  
> Thank you all for the lovely reviews! I share each of them with my sis and we especially love to hear which parts you liked best, little phrases or dialogue you really liked!  
>  ~ Wolf


	6. Chapter 6

Dawn peered through the trees like a blushing maiden, and Jaskier felt like hers weren’t the only eyes on him as he led Roach across the clearing and stepped from tall grasses into the underbrush of the forest again. There was nothing stealthy about their passage through the trees, with the little pot clanking against his leg or the flasks no matter how he held it, and the sword sliding with a serpent’s sound against all the leaves he passed. When he finally came to the stream and crouched to fill the flasks, he kept the sword inches away, nerves jumping at every chirp and croak of morning life. Roach, on the other hand, seemed entirely at ease, her ears tilting lazily to catch the forest’s chatter as she drank her fill.

By the time Jaskier stepped back into the shelter of the barn’s old walls, water from the cookpot spilling cold down his shin, the bard could feel himself fraying a little at the edges. A night without sleep, his present worry over Geralt’s condition, and now the hovering threat of the blacksmith’s revenge were taking their toll, but once he’d assured himself that Geralt was breathing well enough, apparently asleep, Jaskier made himself go through the motions of freeing Roach from her saddle and pulling up a little circle of grass to make a fire. Cold and clear as the stream had been, he wasn’t going to risk rinsing Geralt’s wounds with water that could start a whole new sickness brewing in them. 

He’d gotten better with flint and tinder, practicing on his solo travels so he could impress the witcher with his improved skills on their reunion, and as the little pot began to bubble over the small fire, Jaskier was profoundly glad he had done so. With the bandages boiled clean, along with a few spare cloths he’d found in the saddlebags, he was ready, and carried the cooling pot along with him back to Geralt’s side. 

As soon as he knelt, the meager store of confidence he’d gained by his industrious activity drained away to almost nothing. In the clear light of morning, the witcher looked so much worse, pale and shivering, greeting him with only a fleeting glance before his eyes fell shut again. Jaskier could see blood beneath the sharp rents in Geralt’s shirt and trousers, the obvious harm to his hands, but these were nothing that should have laid Geralt low on their own. There had to be more the witcher hadn’t told him about yet, and that simple thought was where his fear decided to collect and cling. Steeling himself, Jaskier shed his jacket, rolled up his sleeves, and soaked a cloth in the warm water, quietly saying, “Geralt, I’m just going to see what I can do about your leg and your head… Where should I start?”

The witcher glanced at him and Jaskier shored up his determined expression, not sure if he was relieved or just more worried when Geralt gave in with a short sigh.

“Leg’s the worst right now,” he rumbled, closing his eyes again. “Farrier’s knife.” Jaskier leaned forward to peer at the wound, hand hesitating over the torn cloth. Immediately, he was out of his depth. He’d seen Geralt tend plenty of jabs and stabs left by his contracts, and had even helped with a few, but none of those had been left to fester for days first. Fresh blood glinted wetly on the gash in the dawn light, and Jaskier could see the angry flush of infection spreading outward, swelling the skin past where he could see without ripping the cloth further. It was undoubtedly the source of the heat drifting from the witcher’s skin in waves, making his limbs and chest tremble softly with fever chills. Geralt needed a healer, not a bard with a flask of water and a handful of bandages. His first tentative brush with the wet cloth cleared away none of the dried blood and mud, but drew a hard flinch from Geralt.

“Sorry! Sorry. This is… a mess…” The smallest touch seemed to send a flare of agony through the witcher, well-stifled beneath tight breaths and tensed muscles, so Jaskier compromised. “Tell you what - I’m going to just let it soak, all right?” After a beat, he left the cloth there, hoping the wet and warmth would soften the crust away from the wound. Some of the tension in the witcher’s form seeped away, though whether it was from the heat or just because Jaskier was no longer touching the wound, he couldn’t tell. “We’ll leave that there for now. What about your head?”

In a weary mumble, Geralt said, “Concussion... might’ve split the skull.” 

The bard breathed a curse, eyes flashing up to the filth-caked hair, dyed the color of muddy wine from the witcher’s temple to his jaw where it had dried against his skin.

“How did…?

“Tomas,” came the answer. “One of his hammers…. Couldn’t fight them off… couldn’t even see straight.” 

So that’s how they had managed to subdue Geralt without a single man being killed: cowardice and brute force. The witcher actually sounded disappointed with himself, and Jaskier tightly said, “You shouldn’t have had to fight _any_ of them off at _all_.” But he already knew about these wounds, still had to learn what made Geralt so sure he was-

“Right. What else?” he said, wringing out a second cloth over the cookpot. 

“Ribs’r broken… bleeding…”

“Wh- Geralt!” Jaskier dropped the cloth as panic flared hot in his chest, because of course Geralt would put his self-critique of failing to fight off an entire village before something as inconsequential as bleeding out. He lunged for the hem of Geralt’s damp shirt at the same time he snatched up the bandages. The hasty motion accidentally jostled the witcher, whose eyes flew open as his breathing hitched in a tight gasp, forcing a few jarring coughs from his throat before he hastily added, “Ins-inside…” A fluttering breath and a whispered curse followed. “Don’t… touch...” 

The witcher’s torso was a patchwork of shallow gashes and storm-dark bruises, several interrupted by a narrow bar of lighter bruising from whatever was used to inflict those particular blows. Even without Geralt’s urgent warning, Jaskier wouldn’t have dared to lay a hand to those near-black patches; he couldn’t imagine how the other man had tolerated the ride from the village with Jaskier’s arm wrapped around his waist, causing even more pain. Aghast, he mumbled an apology as he gently pulled the shirt back into place, praying his firm hold hadn’t worsened whatever was bleeding beneath. Geralt only shut his eyes again, letting his breathing even out, and Jaskier sat back on his feet, desperation creeping up his spine.

“Is there anything else?” he croaked, praying there wasn’t. Geralt concluded his litany of injuries with only a few simple words.

“Jus’ my hands.” Just his hands, resting atop the straw, the strong fingers bent and swollen dark like his ribs, and Jaskier pulled his eyes away from the sight before he could lose his last store of confidence.

With the second cloth, he turned his attention to the witcher’s bloodied hair, praying the wound beneath was nothing so grave. Under his breath, Jaskier said, “Tell me if I hurt you,” so as not to startle Geralt when he set the soaked cloth lightly against his temple. The furrowed brows lifted and Geralt huffed softly. Under normal circumstances, the idea of Jaskier having any ability to hurt Geralt at all would have been cause for amusement, but Jaskier still couldn’t share in the dark humor just yet, not when he was rinsing clotted blood from his friend’s hair. As he pressed the cloth a little harder, working carefully around the swelling that had been the source of the bleeding, Geralt breathed a soft sigh. 

“Sorry. Too rough?” Jaskier asked.

Geralt only mumbled, “No, it’s good… s’warm,” his head tipping to lean into the cloth. Considering how warm the witcher’s own skin was against Jaskier’s hand, this did nothing to soothe his worry, but he returned to his work. First the wounds, then he would deal with the fever. Soon he could comb his fingers through the silver hair, carding out bits of old mud and blood until he could see the split, purpling bruise that spread from the man’s hairline to above his ear, a blow that would have killed any other man. Tomas hadn’t struck to daze or incapacitate, Jaskier realized; he had swung with all his strength, hoping to kill. 

He had no ointment for pain or swelling, and the bleeding had long since stopped, so all he could do was brush Geralt’s damp, cleaner hair back into place with his fingertips and return to the looming problem of his leg. Beneath the cloth, the heat had drawn a darker flush to the skin’s surface, along with loosening the fabric’s hold on the wound. The bard widened the tear with his dagger, whispering apologies when the movement made Geralt flinch. There he found still more vicious bruising around the wound, and had to look away, not wanting the other man to think the fury on his face was in any way his fault. 

“Geralt, I… I could actually kill them for this, I think.” To think that he had laughed and drunk with a man who found it great sport to strike where he had already stabbed his captive…. Jaskier’s hands were shaking again, and he breathed out deliberately as Geralt rumbled, “Don’t. They’re not worth it… Most’ve them jus’ accepted… whatever he told them.” 

That made it no better, in the bard’s mind. If any of those men - good fathers and husbands all, he would wager - had taken even an instant to look past the strange eyes and hair to the man they were torturing, to wonder if Tomas might have it all wrong, they could have been the key to stopping this. To Geralt, he simply said, “Fine. But I won’t be responsible for what happens if I ever see that bigoted idiot’s face again,” and began the daunting process of cleaning the wound in front of him.

Within a minute or two, Jaskier had cleaned away the muddy mess around the wound, but at the cost of leaving Geralt in trembling tension, despite the lightest touch possible. Wringing a slow trickle of water across the swollen gash elicited an actual groan from the witcher without doing a blessed thing to clean the mud and infection from down inside the wound itself. Voice shaking as much as his hands, the bard soothed, “All right, it’s all right. I’m done. Just have to bandage it…” Even the simple process of winding the cloth above his knee left Geralt paler, swallowing doggedly against the nausea Jaskier had provoked with his meddling. 

Close to an hour, and all he’d managed to do was wash away old blood and leave Geralt in more pain than when he’d begun. Watery bloodstains blotched the ash-grey edges of his cloak beneath Geralt by the time Jaskier had finished with the long trickling trails that ran from the witcher’s raw wrists to his elbows. By then, the lump in his throat had returned, along with a horrible prickling behind his eyes. He settled by Geralt’s elbow, wrung the last clean cloth out over the pot, and touched it, petal-soft, to the witcher’s forehead to wipe away the grime and fever-sweat. Geralt sighed, the lines of tension gradually melting away as Jaskier washed the marks of that village from his face. Along his temples, wary of the tender swelling beneath his hair. Gentle across his shut eyes and rough jaw, blotched with more dark bruising. He unclasped the cloak at Geralt’s throat, and around his neck, Jaskier found two raw circlets in the skin, like collars cinched tight while Geralt fought madly to break free, and he had to stop for a moment, fighting uselessly against his blurring eyes and unsteady breathing.

The lump in his throat hadn’t dissolved as he worked, instead persisting in growing painfully larger. Any one of these injuries alone would have been enough to cripple Jaskier himself, yet Geralt had spent days in that muddy square suffering all of them. And of all these wounds, the only one Jaskier could claim to be competent enough to treat would be the torn skin around the witcher’s wrists where the rope had bitten deep, and they had no bandages left.

The silver-haired witcher seemed to be resting, which was exactly what he ought to be doing. But even while sleeping off the worst injuries the witcher had weathered in the past, Jaskier had always seen a guarded solidity to his body and face. Geralt remained on alert even while he slept out of pure instinct, a necessity for a warrior who knew he was more vulnerable when wounded. Right now, laid out in last season’s straw in a forgotten barn, the witcher’s body was lax, face pinched so his brows nearly met, lips parted to chase each shallow breath. He looked utterly drained, like he hardly had the strength for the breaths he drew with a kind of resigned patience that dug into Jaskier’s heart like an assassin’s knife. 

He had let Jaskier look at his wounds, fumble through treating them, knowing it did little to delay what was coming. He had not chided or threatened Jaskier for daring to lay a cool cloth to his face to calm the fever tremors still shaking him. He had been kind to Jaskier, had spared a precious hour to let him take the long road round until the bard came to the same heartbreaking realization.

Geralt wouldn’t say he was dying unless he knew it was true. In the past he had waved off Jaskier’s horror at bite wounds that still had a few teeth jutting from them. The witcher knew his body and its limits. If he weren’t fighting his wounds at the same time as an entire week of deprivation... If they had even _one_ of those precious little potions... Instead, Geralt’s strength had sustained him for an impossible length of time, had kept him alive through his tormentors’ abuse, and now there simply wasn’t enough left in that warrior’s heart to pull him out of the pit that Tomas’s viciousness had flung him into.

And as that knowledge sank from Jaskier’s head down into his heart, he sat down slowly beside Geralt, cloth abandoned, his hand simply resting on the other man’s arm. If Geralt opened his eyes, he couldn’t miss the trembling of Jaskier’s chin and the tears escaping his eyes, but the bard only heaved a breath and twisted his fingers into the dirty material beneath his hand, resting his forehead on his bent knee. 

“It’s not fair,” he said, fighting down the sob that shook his words and made them break, barely audible. “It’s not right.”

“Slow deaths… rarely are,” came the whispered response. Calm, accepting. Things Jaskier could not bring himself to be right now. He snuffled, swiped his face against his shoulder, and set his head down again as new tears wet his cheeks. There had to be _something_ he could do. The world could not allow this to happen, this astronomical injustice against the only genuine hero Jaskier had ever met or sung of. Geralt deserved more than this, more than the same backhanded thanks the world had doled out to him from childhood. He deserved more, but nobody except Jaskier seemed to think so; even the other witchers didn’t care enough to keep in touch outside their winter meetings. 

“What if I found a healer?” he said, voice crackling and desperate, though he knew the answer before Geralt spoke.

“In these lands? You’d have to go… too far to find… someone willing.” 

“Your potions?” he asked, too, remembering the tiny chink of glass beneath his feet, and Geralt only murmured, “Gone.” 

His thumb had begun a steady back-and-forth against the witcher’s shirt, a rhythm slowly forming words in the bard’s mind, like all rhythms eventually did. Back and forth, the same soft sound over and over growing into _no_. _No_. _No_. It built to a hammering that drowned everything else out, and he made himself let go of Geralt’s arm before his grip turned sharp, pushed to his feet, and made for the saddlebags and supplies piled near Roach at a shambling run. 

He was back a moment later with the saddlebags swinging loose in his hands. Half-blind with tears, Jaskier turned them around and over until he found the right bag, the right container inside, and dropped to the earth beside Geralt again, heart beating a pulse inside his throat, his ears, through every limb, pushing his voice out hoarse and urgent. 

“You said slow.” He opened the leather case and pulled each tiny jar and vial from the cushioning cotton inside it, setting them in a haphazard line between himself and Geralt. “Geralt... how slow?” The question was agony to voice, but he had to know if there was a chance. “If I found the things you’re missing here, if I got them and made the potion…?” 

The witcher’s furrowed brows pulled tighter in pained concentration.

“A day… maybe… at most.” 

Only a day left. Perhaps less. The answer crushed another sob from Jaskier’s aching chest, but he marshalled all his strength to say, “Which ones are missing?” He waited for Geralt to look his way, but the man’s features remained drawn with pain, as if reluctant to answer, and Jaskier’s voice rose desperately. “ _Please_ , Geralt. Please! You have to let me try, at least!” And slowly, so slowly, he was rewarded by a glimmer of gold as the witcher turned to face him.

* * *

Geralt forced his eyes open again. Just the act of turning his head to look at the various bottles Jaskier had laid out was enough to send his vision swimming. Hunger, exhaustion, dehydration... it could have been any combination of those and more, but a few blinks brought the world back into place, and he scanned the materials. He’d expected to have lost them all amid the villagers’ rummaging and Tomas’s destructive tendencies, but there before him sat some of the rarer ingredients his potions required, the ones he’d replenished before leaving the safety of Kaer Morhen. His searching gaze found one out of the three that a healing potion would need, but he’d meant to gather the others along the way. Herbs were easy to find if you knew what to look for, and having brewed an ample supply of potions before leaving, Geralt hadn’t thought it necessary to bring any more ingredients than were strictly needed. He was able enough to find the rest himself without any trouble. 

Until, that is, he’d found himself bound to a post in the middle of a muddy square with all of his healing potions smashed barely a foot in front of him. 

A glance up and the bard’s desperate features drew a new pain deeper in his chest than the bruising or bleeding. The younger man’s breathing was stilted, lingering sobs interrupting the unsteady rhythm and silvered lines tracing across his dirty cheeks. Those soft signs of sorrow constricted around his heart. Witchers weren’t mourned in death. They honored each other in their own ways, but humans didn’t shed tears for them. He’d thought it would be an honor to have someone mourn him, but it wasn’t. It was heartbreaking to see so joyful a person brought to such depths of grief, and at the same time he marveled at the fact that his pain could be the cause for sorrow in another being. 

“Look at what we have,” Jaskier pleaded, jars clattering against each other as he rearranged them in Geralt’s view. “What do we still need to get?” And, gods, he couldn’t bring himself to put out that glimmer of hope in the younger man’s eyes. 

“Celandine,” he breathed, “Five full plants... dried and crushed… to a powder.” Jaskier nodded, quick and hard, waiting while Geralt caught his breath. “Alcohol. Dwarven spirits… as a base.” 

“Right.” The bard’s throat worked as he swallowed his tears, fingers shaking across the vials between them. “And which of these?” 

Geralt managed to turn his hand, indicating a small jar with his unbroken fingers. Before he could speak, though, Jaskier had taken up the bottle and uncorked it, about to lift it to his nose, and a surge of adrenalized panic tore through Geralt’s abused chest. A strangled “ _Don’t!_ ” burst from his throat, but his attempt to lean up on one elbow and catch the bard’s wrist ended before it began as his vision flashed white and he fell back heavily, gasping for breath as the pain in his chest grew suffocating. 

Slowly, the ringing in his ears died down and he could make out Jaskier’s frantic voice repeating his name, a hand gripping his shoulder. He clenched his teeth against the stream of curses he wanted to hurl at both the pain and the fool beside him, opting instead for a more concise version.

“It’s _poisonous,_ you- _”_ The need for air cut him off and he panted through the pain. How, in the name of all the gods, had the world thought it right to bestow such reckless curiosity on a man like Jaskier? Furious frustration shook his words as he added through gritted teeth, “ _Must_ you touch… and smell… _everything?_ ” 

“Well, why on earth should I expect an ingredient for a healing potion to be _poisonous_?” came the flustered response over the sound of the bard rubbing his hands hastily against the straw, presumably to scrape away any trace of the toxic ingredient he’d just been holding. “What _is_ it?” 

“Drowner brain,” he replied succinctly, and Jaskier whispered a repulsed, “Oh, for pity’s sake,” as he digested this information. After a pause, the bard continued, “So, there’s a town just half a day’s walk the way we were headed, and with Roach, I could make it there and back in just an hour or two.” He sniffed, running his wrist against his nose, and said, “I just need to know how to brew it or mix it o- or whatever, and then you can rest. You can just sleep for a bit, and I’ll take care of everything else.” 

Geralt’s heart twisted at the bard’s tender assurances. He knew this terrain better than Jaskier did. It could be up to three hours to get to the town, another hour to gather the supplies, three more to return, but then he still had to prepare the potions. If the celandine wasn’t already dried, there would be no point. It could take days to dry herbs thoroughly enough to powder them, and even if they were, Jaskier would then have to add the toxic dust that was the dried drowner brain, and if he breathed any in....

“It’s not… worth the risk,” he heard himself say, “If you breathe in… any of that,” he glanced at the bottle, “Even the steam… from the mixture…” He trailed off as the bard’s expression grew stony. He’d known that Jaskier would never accept it, never allow his own life to be prized over Geralt’s, but Geralt had never known anyone but a witcher to brew these potions, not since witchers had become so scarce. The fumes off some of them could make even a witcher dizzy and would almost certainly be deadly to a human. 

The younger man looked away from Geralt, let out a breath, then looked back, chin jutting as he said, “I’m sorry, Geralt. But I happen to think that _you_ are worth the risk, even if you don’t. Now tell me how to make this, or I’ll get the ingredients and just... guess at random.”

Geralt watched him for a moment. It concerned him that he couldn’t tell if the bard was just exaggerating or if he really would try and mix the materials on his own. Knowing him, it was the latter, and Geralt pursed his lips, nodding toward the pack that lay by Jaskier’s side.

“Is there still a spoon... in there?” 

There was, and Geralt walked him through the steps, from crushing the herbs to adding only a spoonful of the grey powder in the jar. He put heavy emphasis on Jaskier not breathing it, sniffing it, touching it, _or_ leaning over the potion while it was brewing, and didn’t let up until the bard had scribbled the warning in the margins of his notebook. 

As Jaskier carefully wrapped each bottle before returning them to their case, Geralt let his eyes fall shut again. He didn’t dare let himself hope that the bard’s plan would work. He knew he was getting worse. The ache of the fever was hidden beneath his other pains, but he knew it was there, burning him up slowly. The bleeding would take him quicker, though, the dulled agony in his abdomen growing with every minute, and he was beginning to feel the need for sleep pulling at him, not a restful sleep, but sick and suffocating in its weight. 

There was a chance he would never wake up, and that thought twisted nausea in his gut. He could fall asleep and never know if Jaskier made it back or not. There were so many things that could go wrong, from a thrown horseshoe to Tomas catching him on the road, and if Jaskier gave any hint as to the purpose behind his hurried purchases in town, he’d find every door slammed in his face in an instant. It was more than a long shot. It was boundless optimism and unchecked naivete, but there was nothing Geralt could do to stop him; he knew that, even if it frightened him.

And, Geralt realized, as Jaskier stomped the last embers from his fire, saddled Roach, and returned with the witcher’s heavy cloak over one arm, he didn’t want to be alone again. He didn’t want to die alone, and the likelihood of Jaskier returning before he did was slim. It was baffling how, within a matter of days, he could go from accepting that his own death would likely be violent, painful, and alone, to lying here, slowly bleeding out internally and feeling the irrational urge to catch the bard’s sleeve and not let go. He met Jaskier’s eyes as he knelt beside him, and Geralt could tell by the growing concern in the other man’s expression that more of his fear was visible in his gaze than he’d intended. 

“I won’t waste a single minute,” the bard promised, lifting him for another swallow of water before spreading the dark cloak over him, fussing over it until it covered his shoulders. “I’ll leave the water here where you can reach it. Um… Just try and rest, all right? I’ll go as fast as Roach will let me.”

Geralt didn’t know what to say. _Don’t go?_ He knew Jaskier had to, would fight him on this, and Geralt didn’t have the strength to win out over him now. The bard was watching him, could tell something was wrong and Geralt felt the hum of anxiety drawing his breaths to a quicker pace; he forced himself to take a deeper, slower breath, grimacing and swallowing hard past a flare of pain across his ribs.

“Geralt?” A hand on his shoulder again. “I’ll be back soon, and you’re going to be fine. I promise.” Jaskier shifted as if to get up, and a shrill pang of desperation caught in Geralt’s chest. His eyes shot open and he meant to catch the younger man’s arm before he left, but all he could do was shift to grasp ineffectually at the straw by the bard’s knee and suck in a breath that came out in a hurried jumble.

“I don’t want-” He stopped himself, swallowing back the lump in his throat. Geralt hated the thought of going back to the isolated suffering he’d felt at that post, but whether he wanted to die alone or not, it didn’t matter. Either he would or he wouldn’t. It was up to fate now, and he wouldn’t ask Jaskier to stay when there was a chance, however infinitesimal, that his plan would work. But there was another question he had to ask, even though his voice was a hoarse whisper, and shook with fear and pain. 

“If… If you’re not back… in time…” He managed to raise his voice a little, to head off Jaskier’s interruption. “You’ll take care… of Roach for me? Don’t spoil her. If you… If you can… take the swords… to Kaer Morhen. Show them…” He hesitated. He’d been about to reach for the medallion, to pass it over and tell Jaskier to present it to Vesemir. Between that, the lute, and Roach, he’d understand Jaskier was no thief. Tales of the White Witcher’s bard were almost as prevalent as those of the Witcher himself. Jaskier would be well cared for there until he was ready to make his own way in the world again. But there was no familiar weight against his chest, no glint of silver where he glanced down and Geralt looked away, shame stinging at his heart. 

For a moment, the bard’s breathing wavered, tears threatening to overtake him again. But then Jaskier reached out, fingertips warm on Geralt’s jaw as he gently turned the witcher’s face toward him again. 

“Now you listen,” he said, and Geralt did. “I know you’re scared right now… and I’m so, so sorry I have to leave, but I do. I’m gonna get what you need, and then I’ll be back as soon as I possibly can. And when I come back, _you_ are still going to be here, d’you hear me?” He tilted his head, a ghost of his self-assured smile appearing on his lips as he gripped Geralt’s arm reassuringly. “You are still going to be here, waiting for me, because destiny has far greater plans for you than this. There are people out there _praying_ you’ll come by their village and save them. And I’ve got a lot more singing to do about you, so there you have it,” Jaskier finished, quiet as a breeze. His smile was firm, despite the glimmer of tears still lingering in his eyes. He held Geralt’s gaze for a long moment, repeated, “I’ll be back as soon as I can,” with the gentle brush of his thumb against Geralt’s sleeve, then stood and was gone.


	7. Chapter 7

Geralt breathed a shaky sigh into the stillness, listening as Roach’s hoofbeats faded into the distance. He lay there with his eyes closed, anxiety fading and leaving him feeling strangely at peace. There was nothing more he could do. He’d given Jaskier what instructions he could offer, prepared him as best he could for what the witcher knew was to come. Now all he had to do was try to rest. It was hard, though, with the weight of pain sitting on his chest and the unnatural silence around him. He could hear birds chirping and the rustle of animals in the underbrush around the barn, but whenever he’d slept outside there had always been Roach’s steady breathing somewhere nearby, and every time he was close to drifting off, the wrongness of the whole situation brought him startlingly back to pain and the musty smell of old straw.

A few times, he woke with the creeping feeling that something was urgently wrong, something was missing and he needed to find it. It was the same desperate urgency he’d heard in the young boy’s shout, felt in the strength behind the stone that had struck his face. Was this what it was to fear for a brother? Witchers didn’t often have cause to fear for each other. If they were hurt, it was largely due to their own mistakes, not unlike the lapse in judgement that had landed him in this ramshackle barn with his ribcage in pieces and his mind adrift. 

With Jaskier it was different. The trouble he got into was sometimes of his own doing, but it wasn’t the same. He couldn’t be expected to defend himself like a witcher could, couldn’t be faulted for letting an opponent get in a lucky shot because he was young, untrained, inexperienced, and the thought of sending him out into these violent northern territories with a witcher’s swords and gear clearly hung from the saddle felt like sending his brother to war with nothing but a hope and a prayer to defend himself with.

Geralt shifted uncomfortably, another wave of chills washing over him, and he was cold even with the comforting weight of the cloak draped over him. He took in a careful breath, feeling it press his broken bones upward in his chest, then let them fall back into precarious stillness. 

Time was slipping, he noticed with detached interest. 

The sunlight he could feel on one arm was there one moment and gone the next, sliding down to where the muscles in his legs buzzed and ached. As the time ticked by, his thoughts became hazy, jumbled. He was aware, distantly, that the confusion probably meant the blood loss was beginning to take its toll, but he couldn’t remember just where he was bleeding from when it all felt like one terrible wound from his head to his feet. 

A sound from the road outside drew relief, smooth and light, across his brow. Jaskier was back. He’d be able to stop the bleeding, and he was bringing potions, too. Geralt knew it would take at least two to save his life now, and even that might not be enough. But something was wrong. There were too many voices, and the steady thump of hoofbeats were missing. Geralt meant to open his eyes and look toward the door, but he barely managed a glimpse of the roof overhead, spinning in dizzying circles of blue sky and jagged wood, before he shut them against a wave of nausea. Someone was coming, smelling of iron and ash, fire and pain. A nightmare or a hallucination, it had to be. Not even destiny could be so cruel. 

Footsteps stopped only a few feet away, and the chilling feeling of eyes scanning him with evil intent drew his heart to a fluttering pace. A minute more, then the cloak was swept away and something knocked against his leg, biting fire up his side. Geralt’s eyes opened involuntarily with his breathless gasp, offering him a hazy glimpse of the man standing over him, a knife in his hand and a scowl across the bearded face. 

He was caught. 

Run down like a wounded stag, pursued through the night only to be found collapsed and bleeding, helpless to prevent his own slaughter. As soon as Geralt’s eyes opened, Tomas lunged to poise his knife at Geralt’s throat as if to forestall an attack, the smooth silver curves of the medallion hanging between them. 

“Didn’t run far enough, did ye?” His breath still stank of the beer he’d drunk himself into a stupor with the previous night, but even stronger was the hate that flavored those words. “How’d you manage it? Just shamming the whole time, like you are now?” Geralt found he couldn’t answer, voice caught beneath the press of the knife. And what did it matter if he spoke or not? If this was a dream, he’d wake when Jaskier called him. If not… It hurt to think of the bard returning to find him dead, but if Tomas killed him now, before Jaskier got back, maybe the bard would be spared any harm. 

So he just watched Tomas with a half-lidded gaze, swallowing dryly past the sharp edge of the blade as one of the men who’d come with the blacksmith said something about the horse being missing. Another pointed out the lute case and Tomas cursed spitefully, snapping over his shoulder, “I told you the lad was mixed up in this, didn’t I?” before turning back to Geralt. “Is that how you got loose, witcher? I should have cut out your tongue as well, to stop you snaring the poor lad with your witchcraft…” Blood ran hot and wet down Geralt’s skin; it was just a thin line, but it wouldn’t take more than a flick of the wrist to cut his throat. “... or better still,” Tomas continued, “put you out of your misery last night instead of waiting till morning, hey?” 

Geralt didn’t even try to respond. He just averted his gaze, catching one last look at the brilliant blue sky before he let his eyes fall shut again, waiting for Tomas to finish the job. Instead the smith just scoffed, the blade leaving his throat as Tomas stood and joined his fellows, discussing in hushed voices. 

“Might be the best way,” a gruff voice muttered. “That’d end any spell he’s put on the boy, wouldn't it?” 

“Aye, could be,” Tomas replied, “But I’d rather see him freed of it myself and be sure. Who knows what sort of trickery the creature’s put into his head, if it’s gotten him tending its wounds and riding off for gods know what.” The others murmured agreement and Tomas added, “No, I’ll wait. The thing should be done right.” 

And wasn’t destiny just the stupidest, cruelest of things. To put him through that hellish week, give him a glimpse of relief, only to snatch it all away again, thrust him back into his captor’s clutches and the pain that streaked and blazed through him like wildfire as rough hands hauled him out to the middle of the barn and dumped him on the ground. Geralt choked as he landed heavily on his side, breaths catching and burning in his chest.

“And you, witcher…” Tomas’ voice snarled down at him. “You’ll be right out here where we can all see what you’re up to, until the bard comes back.” A dull impact to his shoulder knocked Geralt onto his back and he lay there, unable to voice more than a thready groan as he tried to breathe through the agony. “And you’ll free him from this spell then,” Tomas went on. “Or by all the gods, you’ll wish you had.” A weight slammed down on Geralt’s bandaged leg and he knew from the tang of blood in his mouth that he’d bitten his tongue, knew from the raw feeling in his throat that he’d cried out, but all he heard was his own heartbeat thudding in his ears as his vision faded to a pinprick of light, cut off as his eyes slid shut and hoofbeats sounded faintly in the distance. 

* * *

Jaskier rode like the famed Devil of Posada itself was breathing down his neck. As confident a face as he had managed to put on for Geralt’s sake, he was still petrified by the thought that he might return from this frantic journey only to find his friend’s body cooling under the cloak, golden gaze fixed on eternity. Though Roach was already at a gallop, she felt his heels dig in and stretched her long legs even further as the trees flashed past. 

Never had he thought he would ever find himself reassuring Geralt like that. That flicker of fear in the other man’s eyes had been swiftly buried, but had undeniably been present, however skilled the witcher was at hiding it. To mount Roach and turn her head to the road felt as much a betrayal as turning his back on Geralt at the post back in that village, but at least he knew what he needed to do this time. 

Celandine, dwarven spirits, and vials to hold the new potions... The generous purse of money he’d departed Novigrad with would easily pay for those items. The only obstacle was time, that enigmatic element that danced around them, hauled the rope that lifted the sun ever higher into the sky as he rode. The day promised to be beautiful, the first breath of true spring, and as the trees changed around them, the bard mused that he’d ridden Roach more in the past day than he had in the rest of his travels with Geralt combined. But for once Jaskier had no room in his mind to spare for admiration or beauty. He’d traveled this very road on his way to find Geralt only a day or two ago, but could not remember with certainty how long it had taken him to travel from town to village, whether he had actually seen an herbalist’s shop as he rambled through…. 

By the time Roach’s hooves struck the ground amidst the helter-skelter of hoofprints on the town’s main thoroughfare, the sun was directly overhead, and the journey had taken nearly twice as long as Jaskier had estimated it would. He didn’t dismount, unwilling to be swept up by the confusing currents of the market’s bustle. Instead, he let Roach’s broad chest clear his path, the twin swords hanging from the saddle putting off anyone who might have objected. 

From his higher vantage point, he quickly spied the mortar and pestle of the herbalist’s sign and urged Roach on; he left the reins hanging loose outside the door, knowing the mare would warn him if anyone caused her trouble. 

Inside, the air was perfumed with a heady mix of the forest and fields, captured and dried in little bundles everywhere around him. Celandine was a common enough flower, but surrounded as he was by leaves and blossoms on every side, he was grateful for the little woman who stepped out to help him, her own skin papery like dried petals when she laid her hand on his arm and chirped, “Let me fetch it for you, lad.” 

He stood there and fidgeted with his shirt cuffs, rolling them up beneath his jacket sleeves to belatedly hide the bloodstains, dusting bits of straw from his trousers. As the herbalist’s light steps whispered up behind him, he turned; she set a small jar of orange powder in his palm and said, “I was about to ask if you had trouble of the eyes, but I see it’s something more painful, hm?” Her dark eyes indicated his cuffs, her glance quick like a sparrow’s hop. “Celandine’s good for the eyes and skin, not bad for the odd scratch, but for a wound you’ll need something stronger. Someone set upon you on the road, did they? I hope you showed them the unfriendly end of your swords out there.” 

“Oh, I wish I’d been able to, believe me,” Jaskier said fervently. “They attacked my friend, and he’s, um, he’s in a bad way. Do you have any bandages? And anything for pain or fever?” His restless gaze landed on a table full of small glass bottles and he strode across to examine them.

“It’s a healer your friend needs, by the sound of it,” the woman replied, her voice weighted with motherly concern as she bustled past. “What sort of wounds are they? He’s not fit to travel, I take it?” 

“No, he’s not. He said he’s…” He cut himself off, trying to bury the stab of fear with motion as he gathered up a handful of vials, close enough to the right size for the potions. “I just need to get back to him as soon as possible. I’ll need these as well.” 

The herbalist’s gentle face had a pinched look to it as Jaskier laid the vials and celandine on her counter, next to the bandages and the small jar of willow bark she had fetched for him, and then fumbled for the coin purse in his satchel.

“How far off is he from town?” she asked, little hands deftly wrapping the jar full of crumbled grey bark in cloth to protect it. “If you can spare the time, I’ll close shop and come along with you. This doesn’t sound like a case for a young lad to handle alone.” She caught his elbow gently as he reached out with the coins, looking up at him with such clear sympathy that Jaskier felt his throat constrict with the yearning for someone to help, someone who knew what in all the gods’ names they were doing. She must have seen the waver in his expression, because she nodded decisively and patted his hand. “It won’t take me more than ten minutes to get the cart ready. We’d best make all haste, and not just because your friend’s poorly; it’s not safe for a soul to be out in these wilds alone, although I know you had no choice, dear.”

As she tucked the coins away, Jaskier began adding his purchases to his own bag, words of thanks on the tip of his tongue when the woman added, “Not just wolves or other creatures to be mindful of, either. There’s that castle, too, up north. Naught good ever came from it, and while there are precious few of those devils roaming our lands these days, I’d hate to find one in front of me on a lonely road, to be sure.” 

Jaskier’s hands froze in place along with his heart, praying he had heard her wrong, had misunderstood. 

“What devils?” he asked, and she answered readily in her thin voice, unaware that she was dismantling his tentatively-constructed hope with each word.

“Those unnatural things that come out of that ruin, what some call witchers. Evil, I say,” and she traced a quick ward in the air, as if to protect herself. “Something men created while playing at being gods, but men can’t put a soul in what they make, now can they? So we’re stuck with those devil-spawn, as if the wolves weren’t trouble enough. I wouldn’t like to think of your friend all on his own with the likes of them out there.”

Jaskier had heard enough. When she stepped into the back room, assuring him she’d be back in two shakes, the bard slung his bag over his shoulder and left the shop. Any guilt he might have had for the old woman locking up early and losing the evening’s revenue had evaporated the minute the word “devil” had left her lips. He was disgusted with himself for caving so easily to the neighborly warmth in her face, for letting his guard drop, but more than anything else he was sick to death of bigoted people writing Geralt off as loathesome before they’d seen his face or learned his name. 

Between his urgent glare and Roach’s formidable height, none of the shopkeepers in the market called out to try him as a customer. And thanks once again to Geralt’s swords shining against the horse’s chestnut coat, the only consequences he faced for elbowing to the front of a particular stall were a few dirty looks and immediate service. With the bottle of dwarven spirits safely stowed in his bag, he brushed his heels against Roach’s ribs and pushed through the crowd at a bullying trot. If he planned to ever come back here and perform, the creative epithets flung at his back might have refined his conduct a little, but he was glad to trade this town’s affection for a fast journey. Perhaps once Geralt was feeling better, he’d let the witcher know he’d found a little merit to his brutish methods after all. 

“Good work, Roach,” he said aloud as the mare’s hooves struck the road outside the town, and patted her neck warmly. “Let’s get back to Geralt.” With a ready snort, she dove into a gallop that left him clinging like a burr to the saddle, ducked low against her neck.. 

Though Roach slowed to a canter after a mile or two, she was still swift-footed, and Jaskier let her set her own pace. The fact that she’d allowed Jaskier to even climb into the saddle without taking a bite out of him or bucking him off sideways told him she somehow understood the urgency of their mission. She’d get a good long rest as soon as they stopped, and he’d fetch her water after he’d finished with Geralt’s potions. He had enough of everything now for at least a few doses, more than enough to get the witcher back to something like his usual invulnerable health

Despite his best efforts, the sun had begun to brush the treetops by the time Jaskier neared the barn again, and the fear he’d managed to keep under control while he was busy seeking and purchasing in town rushed back in full force. 

“Please be alive,” he whispered under his breath, the precious ingredients in his pack knocking against his hip as he rode. “He’s gonna be fine. He’s fine. Just a quick cup of… disgusting witcher tea, made with… brains and booze. Then he’ll be fine.” His own chanting did nothing to calm his heart, which had kicked up its pace to match Roach’s hoofbeats. 

Then he came into sight of the ramshackle old building peeking from the trees, and nearly choked on a breath as a flicker of movement disappeared behind the open doors. That couldn’t possibly be Geralt, and the movement had been furtive, someone knowing they weren’t welcome there.

“No, no,  _ no… _ .” He kicked Roach into a gallop, fear tingling along every limb, buzzing loud in his ears so that he could barely hear the tumult of hooves beneath him. The mare crossed into the long grass without missing a stride, and only slowed when she was feet from the wide door, giving him space to vault from the saddle and stagger the last few steps, his satchel sliding off his arm.

He caught his balance on the threshold, sun-dazzled vision slow to show him what waited in the shady interior, but amid the sun-and-shade dappling he immediately saw Geralt sprawled on his back just a few steps away, silver hair spread in the dirt, and Jaskier felt his breath freeze in his chest. 

“Easy, lad, easy!” A vaguely familiar figure stepped out from the shadow just inside the door, rough hands extended toward him. “He’s no threat to you now. You’re nearly free of him.” 

“What did you do? What did you do to him?” Jaskier demanded, evading the older man’s grasp, pushing past. He couldn’t see past the nebulous afterimage from the sunlight, couldn’t see if Geralt was bleeding, was still breathing….

Before Jaskier got more than a step, however, another figure moved between him and Geralt’s still body, and the bare glimpse of a dark beard and the hammer at his belt was all he needed. 

Jaskier was at the man’s throat with a wordless shout before the blacksmith could lift his arms. The only thing that stopped them from crashing to the floor was a third man who leaped to Tomas’s defense, grappling with them both until he dug his fingers under Jaskier’s and pulled him away, long arms around the bard’s chest as he fought tooth and nail to break free. 

He should have left earlier. He should have been faster. He should have been  _ here  _ when Tomas caught up to them, before he could get his hands on Geralt again. The blacksmith himself had doubled over, hands on knees as he coughed his throat clear of the feel of the bard’s fingers wrapped around it. On the floor, forgotten by his captors for the moment, Geralt hadn’t moved an inch. Jaskier saw fresh blood trickling from the corner of the witcher’s pale lips but the shallow movement of his chest and throat made Jaskier sag with relief for an instant, long enough for Tomas to walk up to him and rasp, “It’s all right. You’ve been through a nightmare this past day, but-” 

Jaskier spat in his face. Over his shoulder, his opponent barked, “Hey, settle!”, snatching the bard’s arm back into his grip as the salt-and-pepper-haired fellow from the village made a third point in their unsteady triangle. 

“Lad, you’re not in your right mind!” the older man snapped, holding his gaze with flinty eyes. “Now we’re here to help you, so listen to what Tomas has to say.” 

“Oh, you’ve all helped  _ more  _ than enough!” Jaskier shouted at him, wrenching free as the man behind him warily let go, leaving him loose but surrounded. “And you’re going to have to kill me, too, if you think you’re laying another hand on him!” Bafflingly, the older man only shook his head sadly, sharing a look with Tomas, who had wiped his face and now squared up to Jaskier again.

“That witcher,” he said slowly, pointing to Geralt as if Jaskier was too stupid to understand him otherwise, “has cursed you, lad.” He ignored the incredulous scoff Jaskier tossed at him. “He’s beguiled you into releasing him, into tending to him, and we’re only here to see you free of him.” The villagers’ nearness was claustrophobia-inducing; the bard sidestepped out of their enclosure, but they moved with him, positioned between him and Geralt like soldiers holding the line, and he stood shaking with hate and rage and disgust as he snapped, “I haven’t been  _ cursed _ , you superstitious imbeciles!” He didn’t have time for this;  _ Geralt  _ didn’t have time for this. “Get out of my way,  _ now! _ ”

Tom stepped forward instead, hand lifted placatingly, eyes wide and wary. Like calming a high-strung mare, the blacksmith spoke again, “Bard... you’ve a good heart for helping where you thought it was needed, but this witcher-” 

“Is a good, honorable,  _ decent  _ man, who you _ tortured to death’s door!” _ Jaskier bellowed back, voice coming apart at the edges, distantly aware of Roach dancing uneasily behind him. “ _ Look _ at him! Did you come here to finish the job? You going to take his head back with you and mount it up on the wall like your other trophies? Tell everybody how you slew the evil white-haired witcher single-handedly, how he spat poison and stole your children, when the only thing he did wrong was to stop by your gods-forsaken hovels to try and  _ help  _ you?” In the face of his raw-throated tirade, Tomas held his ground, but with effort, and when Jaskier stopped to breathe, the smith turned to his companions, face blank. 

“The lad’s lost to himself. Hold him while I finish the creature - that’ll soon bring him out of this.” The two men reached for Jaskier while Tomas turned on his heel and knelt by Geralt’s unconscious, defenseless body, and the bard’s heart nearly came out of his chest. Roach stood tall and dark behind him, and he twisted from the men’s hands to drag the gleaming length of the silver sword from the sheath on Roach’s side. Both men stumbled back in shock as he shouldered past them, frantic, because Tomas had drawn his knife and dragged Geralt’s head back against the ground to bare his throat. Jaskier saw the briefest flicker of gold as the witcher’s eyes searched the air, and then all he saw was Tomas’ panicked face as the silver blade cut down at him from behind.

The strike bit into the earth where the smith had been only an instant before, nearly overbalancing the bard, but he swiftly lifted the blade with both hands again, breath coming hard. The blacksmith scrambled to his feet nearby, braying, “I said to hold him! What are you-” 

The two other men darted forward at Geralt as Tomas dodged to the side; Jaskier pivoted with him, trying to keep between the smith and Geralt. What had Geralt told him?  _ Only strike if you’re sure. Don’t let him get in close... _ Then the world fell into chaos as a fearsome scream split the air, and he spun in time to see Roach rear and chop her hooves down at the younger villager’s shoulder in a spray of blood. She reared again, but Jaskier whipped round, realizing he’d lost track of Tomas, and terror pounded through him at the sight of the smith behind him, hand outstretched only a step from Geralt.

With a harsh shout of “Stay away from him!” Jaskier slashed the blade upwards; it arced through the air above the witcher’s motionless body, and finally struck its target as the blacksmith howled in pain, bicep streaming blood. Roach’s whinnying was constant and deafening, blended with the hoarse shouts of the two men trying to catch her bridle without being bloodied again. “Get out of here, now!” he roared, dodging around Geralt’s legs to advance on the shocked blacksmith. “Or gods help me, I will _gladly kill you!_ ”

The other man’s face flashed with fear, clearly not seeing the amateurish grip and adrenaline-fed efforts to aim the blade correctly, and Jaskier pressed his advantage, blood pounding in his ears because there was  _ no time _ and he couldn’t see the other two, couldn’t stop all of them-

“Tomas!” the older of the men shouted by the door, edging into the setting sun’s rays with his younger partner standing bloody and pale beside him, and Tomas looked over, spitting curses. 

“Get him out safe, then you take care of that witcher!” he ordered, backing steadily away from Jaskier, eyes back on the blade. Roach whinnied again, hooves striking the earth, and Jaskier whirled, terrified the old man had chosen to go after Geralt first instead, but both men had rushed out toward the road, the mare’s warning ringing behind them as she stood by her master. 

He’d taken his eyes from the blacksmith for those precious seconds, though, and paid the price when a strong arm wrapped around his neck from behind, yanking him off-balance. Instinctively, Jaskier dropped the sword, but the iron muscles didn’t budge an inch under his hands. He twisted and bucked, ears filled with the growls of his and his opponent’s struggle, but dark speckles of stardust swiftly began to float into his vision. As Jaskier’s knees weakened, his fingernails snagged on the rough bandage still wrapped around Tomas’s forearm, and without hesitation, the younger man clamped his teeth down onto the cloth-bound wound as fiercely as he could.

Tomas bellowed like a stung bull, and for an instant Jaskier was free, staggering forward dizzily. But then rough hands seized him, hauled him around, and his back hit the creaking wall with the wild-eyed man only inches away from his face. Tomas was red-faced behind his beard, and he sounded near as desperate as Jaskier felt, shouting, “For pity’s sake, lad, don’t make me kill you! A witcher’s not worth dying over!” 

“His  _ name  _ is Geralt,” Jaskier snarled, tearing his eyes from the dark, motionless form across the barn from them, the far doorway still mercifully clear of the smith’s cronies returning. “And you can’t count high enough to number the people he’s risked his own life to save, including your worthless hide! The least you could do is let the man die in peace!” His voice splintered on the last words as he tried to wrench free, and he heard the wood behind him groan at the same moment, an instant before the aged boards at the doorway’s edge snapped behind him, sending both men down into the warm grass. 

Almost before Jaskier’s back had hit the ground, Tomas drove his fist down into Jaskier’s face with stunning force once, twice before lurching up toward the broken doorway. Through the blood stinging one eye, Jaskier snatched his dagger free and flung himself at the blacksmith, stabbing down into the man’s calf. Then they were in the grass again, the dagger gone, blindly striking, grappling, fists and grunts and bruising pain, until Jaskier found himself down on his hands and knees, sobbing for breath, and nothing else around him was moving. 

Unsteadily, he palmed blood from his face and saw Tomas sprawled facedown on the grass with scarlet staining the crushed blades around his head, the bright glow of sunset turning the wet hair orange. The blacksmith’s hammer lay bloodied beside Jaskier’s knee, though the bard had no memory of his hand closing around it or lifting it to strike. A horrible trembling was running through him, like a lute string plucked and left to shiver, but he pushed to his feet clumsily. A bright glint caught his eye by the blacksmith’s shoulder: Geralt’s medallion, flecked with blood that smeared when he picked it up and tugged the chain over the man’s unresisting head. Tomas was breathing, Jaskier saw, though he didn't know how he felt about that knowledge. On wooden legs, he turned to the barn again, nearly falling when his boots slipped on the slick grass. 

The other two men were gone, Roach standing tense and watchful at the door facing the road. The mare snorted at the sight of him, at the bloody scent he carried on his face, his hands. He probably looked every bit as unhinged and cursed as Tomas had believed him to be, his hair plastered down with sweat and someone else’s blood on his hands. But he didn’t care. All he wanted was to see Geralt breathing and alive, to be certain he hadn’t been too late, hadn’t failed to keep the last promise he’d made to his friend. 

Geralt was still as stone; the sunlight had moved since Jaskier had ridden up, and now it lay across the witcher’s arm and shoulder where he’d been dropped by the men. Nearly out of strength, Jaskier dropped down next to Geralt and ducked his head, still gasping for air like the fight hadn’t ended, and swiped at the blood above his eye again while he tried to calm his breathing. He couldn’t fathom what cruel urge had caused the men to drag Geralt across the room like this, to torment a sick man so viciously that a dirty boot mark still showed on his bandaged leg. 

But once Jaskier’s own breathing had calmed, the witcher’s strained breaths were blessedly audible, and visible in the slow movement of Geralt’s chest and throat, where the trickle of blood from Tomas’s knife had dried in a dark line. Geralt was alive. Still alive, which meant there was still time, still a chance… He reached automatically beside him for his pack, remembered dropping it when he dismounted, and looked over at the doorway only to see the older villager standing there with a face like granite. 

For long moments, they observed each other in silence, Jaskier crouched over Geralt, bloodstained and red-eyed, and the villager grim-eyed and unmoving. The older man looked away first, eyes drawn to the far doorway through which Jaskier and Tomas had fallen as they struggled, then looked back to Jaskier, a mute question in the air.

“Over there,” the bard said mechanically, almost inaudible, but the man followed his look to the place where the blacksmith lay, and nodded. For a curious moment, he thought he saw reluctant apology in those dark eyes, but then the man turned to cross the barn and the look was lost. 

Whatever state he found Tomas in, whether the smith left walking or as dead weight over the older man’s shoulder, Jaskier didn’t see or hear it. An overpowering exhaustion hovered a bare inch from his mind and body, ready to drop and take him in an instant, and he still had the most important work of his life to do. 


	8. Chapter 8

“I’m back,” he rasped, gently pulling the witcher’s arms from their sprawl to lie at his sides instead. “Geralt? I’m back.” He needed to get up and get his pack. The light would be going soon, and he had to get the herbs brewing before it was too late. “I’m going to get the fire lit. If you can hear me, I’ll be right here. Just… just rest.” 

When he stood, he found he was still clutching the medallion in one hand, the smooth edges indented against his palm, and he slid it into his pocket for safekeeping. Kneeling by the rekindled fire, fed with the larger pieces of board broken in the fight, Jaskier scrubbed his shaking hands dry of sweat and blood with a handful of dirt and looked over the little array of jars and bottles. He would get only one try at brewing this correctly, and based on Geralt’s reaction to his ill-advised attempt to smell the ingredients, doing this wrong could very likely end with both of them dead. 

“Come on, Jask,” he breathed, pushing away the exhaustion, the lingering shock of knowing that he had nearly killed a man not an hour ago, and the gnawing fear that it was already too late. “Just follow the instructions. Plenty of time for a good, long breakdown later. Geralt first.” With his notebook held open by his pack to the page of his scribbled instructions, he carefully poured the spirits into the cooking pot over the fire, then added the celandine, grimacing at the acrid stench that rose up as soon as the herb hit the warming alcohol. For a horrifying moment, as his eyes watered, he thought he’d just done the one thing Geralt had warned him not to, but then saw the dark little jar of drowner brain still safely corked to the side. If this was how awful the base of the potion smelled, he didn’t want to imagine adding powdered brain to it; he’d likely die of the smell itself before the toxins ever got to him. 

While the celandine slowly simmered, perfuming the air with its bitter scent, Jaskier returned to Geralt, reassuring himself with the steady rise and fall of the man’s chest before stumbling up again to fetch one of the larger cloths he’d used to tend the witcher’s wounds. Geralt had put all his strength into repeating to Jaskier that he _must not_ let the third ingredient come in contact with his hands or face, that even the steam from the mixture would make him deathly ill, at best. With that earnest gaze and hoarse voice in mind, he tied the cloth around the lower half of his face and dug into the saddlebags to find Geralt’s gloves. If he hadn’t been killed fighting off a band of murderous idiots, he certainly wasn’t going to die over something as stupid as accidental poisoning while Geralt lay there counting on him to manage this.

“Nearly there,” he said aloud, tired voice muffled behind the cloth, “Almost ready, Geralt. Just a few more minutes...”

When the celandine had finally brewed sufficiently, Jaskier quickly carried the pot to the grass a few yards from the barn. Tomas was gone, either helped or carried away, the trampled grass already beginning to lift again, but what made his heart jump a frightened beat was the deepening flush of sunset resting heavy on the treetops. With a curse, he turned and half-ran back, stuffing his hands into the too-big gloves before picking up the large mixing jar and the little vials he’d bought in town and hurrying back outside. He didn’t dare mix it inside, despite the gaping holes in the roof that might draw away the steam. 

With the herbal mixture poured off into the mixing jar, Jaskier took a deep breath before uncorking the jar of dark powder and tapping a little mound onto the spoon. The furious boiling the powder set off in the jar made him jolt back, but the liquid quickly turned ink-black and settled thickly against the glass. This was more or less what Geralt had described, and Jaskier poured it into the vials with his heart hammering, forcing himself to go slowly enough that none of the potion dripped down the sides. 

Once he had the five vials safely filled and corked, warm in his palm, he pulled the cloth from his face, left the gloves and everything else in the grass, and sprinted back. He dropped to his knees in the dirt again, heart clenching at the rough edge to each breath the witcher dragged in. A sickly shadow had settled in the hollows around his eyes and cheeks, and Jaskier laid a hand against the witcher’s pale face, thumb soothing against the shadows. 

“Geralt? It’s me. Need you to wake up, just for a minute,” he said shakily. “I’ve got your potions all ready here, as many as you need. Come on….”

The slow frown and deeper breath were reluctant, but Jaskier continued his efforts, running his thumb over the witcher’s eyebrow, along his cheek, keeping the motion constant and varied to drag the man up from the frighteningly deep place he’d sunk into.

“That’s it, come on. We need to get this down you, then we’ll get you more comfortable…” _And pray_ , he thought, _pray to all the gods that this isn’t too little too late_. He spread a wan smile on his face as the witcher’s eyes opened slowly, blinked even slower, and then finally focused. “Geralt? You back with me?” The gold lingered on him for a beat, then Geralt’s eyes widened in alarm and Jaskier belatedly realized blood was still smeared down the side of his face. “Oh, no, it’s fine. I’m fine.” Geralt’s frown deepened, his gaze beginning to scan their surroundings as Jaskier carefully lifted the witcher’s head and shoulders into his lap. Geralt grimaced at the movement, blinking dizzily before squeezing his eyes shut again. 

“Tomas?” The low voice was slow and slurred, heavy with effort, and Jaskier hurried to reply before Geralt could spend any more strength on speaking. 

“He’s gone. He’s… They’ve all gone. We’re safe.” But the witcher’s frown was already fading and he only gave a faint “hmm”, as if already drifting back out into that dark sea Jaskier had pulled him from.

That thought terrified him, and he hastily uncorked the small vial, sliding an arm under Geralt’s neck to help him drink. 

“Here, Geralt, I’ve got-”

“You sh’d go…” The witcher’s words were mumbled and blurred together, like a sleeper speaking from a dream. “... for th’supplies… th’res not much time…” 

“It’s ready, I’ve got it right here,” he coaxed, touching the vial to the witcher’s lips. Thankfully, despite his confusion, Geralt seemed to recognize the potion, and drank without complaint other than a breath of disgust at the flavor. “Yeah, I’ll bet that tastes wonderful,” Jaskier said, tossing the empty vial aside and reaching for another. He knew he’d seen Geralt knock back at least two of these after a memorable monster-related mishap left him bleeding like a sieve. “One more.” The second potion went slower than the first, though the taste was clearly not one to be savored; Geralt had to take it in sips, panting and swallowing down pain or nausea or both. When the second vial was finally empty, Jaskier waited a beat, then tentatively said, “Is that any better?” 

The breath Geralt took to speak was broken off by a few thin coughs, drawing the golden eyes open again, pinched and glassy with fever. They fell on Jaskier leaning over him and the witcher’s gaze grew alarmed again.

“You’re… hurt,” he rasped, and Jaskier’s heart seized tightly at the confusion still cast like a veil over Geralt’s expression. That look didn’t belong on Geralt's face, not when just a few hours ago he had still been giving Jaskier orders, despite knowing- no, _believing_ he was dying. Yet now he didn’t even seem to remember that he’d already seen the blood on Jaskier’s face. The bard opened his mouth to repeat his reassurance, but Geralt’s eyes had slid shut again, alarm lost in the fever heat still burning through his shirt where his shoulders lay against Jaskier’s legs. The sun had sunk into twilight outside, the golden light gone grey and cool, and fear began to rise like a shadow over Jaskier again. 

He hadn’t thought any further than this. His whole focus had been on getting what they needed for the little potions that had kept Geralt alive and fighting through so many close calls in the past. Some part of him had expected the other man to immediately perk up or otherwise demonstrate that he’d be back to his old self soon, as he so often had done after taking one of these draughts. Instead, the witcher remained heavy and quiet in his lap, an arrangement Geralt would never have tolerated if he weren’t too sick to register it. 

“We’ll give it a minute,” Jaskier said quietly, shoring up the last stubborn bits of his hope against the fear swelling dark over him like an ocean wave. “A few minutes…” Maybe the witcher brew just took a while to work. He didn’t dare give Geralt another dose yet…. While he didn’t recall exactly how many Geralt could take at once, he remembered him saying something about too many being no better than poison. That was a risk he couldn’t afford to take, not as labored as Geralt’s breathing already was, as weak as he clearly was. 

Something else Geralt had said offhand once came to the bard’s scattered mind. He’d asked Geralt why he bothered to clean and bandage a wound if his witcher healing or a shot of that murky potion would handle it within a day, and Geralt had actually replied for once, instead of ignoring or “hmm”ing. Everything he did himself, he’d said, whether stitching or wrapping or what have you, was something his own healing didn’t have to expend itself on, which meant he was back in fighting shape that much quicker. And _that_ was something Jaskier could do to help, something to pour his lingering nervous energy into, because it was either that or sit and wait, and the bard thought he might just go mad if that’s all that was left to him.

“All right,” Jaskier said into the silence. “Let’s see about cleaning up those wrists and your hands, maybe bring that fever down….” The extra bandages were in his pack, and he still had the water in the flasks. He ought to see about getting Geralt back onto the straw under the more solid part of the roof as well. 

As he stealthily slid from beneath Geralt, however, the witcher’s eyes opened again, disoriented and unfocused, and when Jaskier moved to lower the silver head to the ground, he was startled by the clumsy hand that swung up to snag his shirt. Geralt’s fingers were closed tight as he could manage, either ignoring or unaware of the agony the grip must have caused, and his wide, terrified gaze found the bard’s face as he said, “ _Don’t_ ,” the word more a groan than speech. 

Jaskier tried to keep his voice calm and level, saying, “I just have to get-” but Geralt breathed, “Don’t go.” A shaking breath, then, “No time to get… there and back,” and Jaskier realized the potions hadn’t made anything better at all. Geralt was just as lost, just as sick, and the bard’s heart sank as he tentatively wrapped his own fingers around the large hand clutching weakly at his shirt. “Just stay…” Geralt whispered hoarsely, his eyes already half-lidded, the usually strong hand and arm trembling as his grip began to go slack in Jaskier’s careful hold, “Please, jus’ stay…”

“I’m staying,” he said around the lump in his throat. “I’m right here. I won’t leave, I promise.” He held on gently until some of the fear faded from his friend’s face, and this time, Jaskier waited for long minutes after Geralt’s eyes shut and his breathing calmed, until he was certain the other man had sunk back into a deeper sleep for the moment. Then he wiped his eyes on his sleeve and went to fetch what he needed to make Geralt comfortable. 

Blessedly, the ill man remained unaware while Jaskier put out the smouldering fire, shook handfuls of straw into a messy sort of nest by the wall once more with Geralt’s bedroll laid atop it, and gathered his pack, water flasks, and everything else into a heap by the bales. By the time he’d unsaddled Roach and whispered apologies into her mane, the sky had gone bruise-dark and the air had cooled. That only made Geralt’s skin hotter by comparison when Jaskier bent to hook his arms under the witcher’s broad shoulders and carefully, carefully pull him across the scuffed earth to the makeshift bed with Jaskier’s cloak rolled up for a pillow. 

Jaskier had long since passed the point of feeling tired or strung-out, and had moved on to a dull state of continuance; until there was nothing left to do, he intended to keep moving, because once he stopped, starting again would be impossible. And while what was left to do seemed simple on the surface - clean and bandage the wounds around Geralt’s wrists that had been reopened by Tomas and his men, keep him cool to fight the fever - those things had grown in his mind’s eye until they filled nearly all his sight. He didn’t try to look past them. Whatever lay behind those tasks was waiting in the lonely small hours of the night to come, and he refused to face that until fate left him no other choice. 

Geralt’s rough breathing hitched once or twice when Jaskier pressed the wet cloth too firmly to the raw skin on his wrists, but he lay silent otherwise, a terrible stillness to his body in the shadows where the moonlight couldn’t reach. All that seemed left to the witcher was the act of breathing, all his other abilities and reactions sapped away along with his strength. As the bard worked, fingers pressed to the one-two tap of the wrist he was doctoring, Jaskier talked to his silent companion, low and constant, though Geralt seemed well past hearing at this point. 

“I don’t think I killed him. I don’t even remember hitting him, but I must have, unless he hit himself with the hammer, so… He was alive when I left him. And I think the old man would have said something when he went over to get him... I think he was sorry for it all by then… The old man, not Tomas.” He reached for the neat roll of bandages, held the end and let it ribbon out into the straw as he began to wind it over and around. “I don’t understand how even after seeing you like this, he just wanted to see you worse, to see you dead. I think he was ready to kill me by the end, just to get to you.... I don’t think I killed him. But if he dies of it, I’m not sorry. That’s probably not the right thing to say, but you know me…. Never stopped me talking in the past, has it?”

The smooth bandages stood out below Geralt’s abused hands and the bruised fingers, and Jaskier thought about the bones beneath, whether he ought to try setting them the way he’d seen the witcher do before. But the thought of Geralt waking suddenly in the dark to that kind of pain…. He shook his head and let the thought fall in the shadows among the straw, before picking up a cloth and wetting it with a careful tip of a flask. 

By the time he’d run the cloth across Geralt’s face and neck, his chest and arms, the fever had dried it away on his face already, and Jaskier began again, emptying out half a flask in small doses. The repetitive loop of motion made him feel useful at first, but as the minutes dragged on with no response from the witcher, the stubborn hope he’d been clinging to with both hands began to slip through his fingers. The bard pressed his lips together tightly, but that didn’t stop the blur in his eyes from overflowing, what was left of his hope trailing away down his face.

“Geralt?” he finally ventured, voice nearly as craggy as the witcher’s usually was. He’d wrecked it shouting during the fight, and now from trying to choke back the grief balled up in his throat. “Hey, Geralt… Need to see if you can drink something.” He tapped the dark-clad shoulder, rested the back of his fingers against the pale, damp cheek, but the only reaction he received was another shallow breath that scraped on its way in and out, and abruptly, Jaskier found himself at the final limits of his strength and will. It was all he could do to anchor his hand on Geralt’s shoulder as the sobs began to quietly shake loose in his chest, bowing him forward.

Sometime in the tending in the dark, Jaskier had realized he’d already heard the last thing Geralt of Rivia would ever say to him: _Please, just stay_. That child-like plea would have shocked all those men who believed witchers to be void of emotion, less than human, but what more profoundly human need was there than that soul-deep yearning to know someone else was there, to not be alone? A stray line by a poet whose name he’d forgotten surfaced in his memory... “All men return to childhood when that final darkness is upon them, where no candle can reach, and no voice can teach the way.” 

The potions hadn’t helped. Whether that was because Jaskier had somehow botched the making of them, or because there was simply too much broken and damaged in the witcher’s body, he couldn’t be sure. Maybe he’d just found Geralt too late, and all his ensuing effort had been like trying to empty the ocean with a thimble, or trying to protect a flame in the middle of a downpour.

But Jaskier could do this much, at least, though it would be the hardest thing he’d ever done. He could stay, could wait these last painful hours out along with Geralt, and chase away the fear. Already it felt like his heart was being pulled apart, tiny fractions at a time, so the agony never faded, never ended. But if he had braved the wilds this long with his friend, faced down unimaginable evils and creatures, he could stand with him to face down this last monster, however much it hurt. 

Under his hand, the ghost of a groan trembled through Geralt’s body, followed by a stuttered breath. When Jaskier said his name as an unsteady question, only a low wheeze answered him, a pained noise that ended in a few tight coughs. The next breath was labored, dragged in with difficulty, as if the shadows across his chest were crushing chains, and the witcher’s head rolled to the side, lifting up and back as if to find more air. 

“No. No, no, no, Geralt, please-” This was too soon. This was too fast. Jaskier scrambled up onto his knees, shaking all over, and cast about, but all he could hear and see was Geralt struggling for air. “Geralt?” Frantically, he circled round to the witcher’s head, slid his hands beneath the tense shoulders and lifted. The bales were only a few steps away, and he fell against them, pulling Geralt’s weight up into his arms and against his own body, so the witcher’s back rested against his chest. 

“Come on, Geralt. Come on. Please, just breathe.” Sitting the ill man upright was the only thing he could think of, even though this was the farthest thing from a simple chest cold. “Do this one thing for me, you stupid, stubborn…” The witcher’s head lolled against him, shifting restlessly as another wheezing cough wrenched loose in Geralt’s chest. Jaskier couldn’t do anything more than hold him as Geralt sucked in a few more breaths, swallowed them down, and panted them back out in sharp gasps before they reached a tentative rhythm once more. Hands shaking, Jaskier guided the silver head to nestle against his shoulder, heated brow pressed to Jaskier’s neck, and wrapped an arm around the witcher's chest to keep him from sliding. Though it could be his imagination, the bard thought the puffs of air against his throat didn’t sound quite as rough and forced as they’d been before. “There you go,” he whispered. “That’s it. That’s good.”

This reprieve would likely be brief, Jaskier knew, but he was desperately glad for it. He wasn’t ready to say goodbye to this man who had become his brother, would never be ready, wasn’t sure he could even survive this slow rending of his heart. Every swell of his own chest, faster than the slow (not slowing, please, not yet) motion of the witcher’s, pressed more tears from his eyes and renewed the same torturous cycle of hope and grief. 

_He’s breathing easier now. Maybe…._

_Jask, he told you himself: it’s too late._

_If I’d been just an hour faster, if I’d gotten there sooner…._

He’d spent a whole extra day in Gelibol just because of that dark-haired barmaid who’d smiled at him so slyly. An entire day, and then all those mornings he’d slept in because there was no reason to hurry.... No reason except Geralt, alone and suffering, resigned to the fact that nobody would come. It was enough to make Jaskier’s stomach twist with self-loathing, although the last fading sparks of anger he had left were all reserved for Tomas. That stupid, ignorant fool had no right to end the life of someone like Geralt; he shouldn’t even have been capable of it. Only cowardly deceit and the benefit of the doubt that Geralt somehow still gave to those around him had made it possible for Tomas to do what he had done. And here Jaskier sat in the dark, holding the result of the blacksmith’s choice to indulge the demon inside of him: A good man now held together with nothing more than fading will and those weak, struggling breaths. 

Chills still ran through Geralt’s body, although he hardly seemed to have strength left to shiver, and though he wasn’t conscious, his muscles trembled with effort. Whether it was from pain, or the slow, unknowable process of dying, Jaskier didn’t know, but he couldn’t bear to simply sit without trying to relieve some of that suffering. After a moment’s hesitation, he let the hand closest to Geralt’s head settle on the tangled, moon-silver hair and begin a gentle strum. He didn’t know what else to do. How did you comfort someone who was so close to disappearing from the world? He knew what he would want and how frightened he’d probably be, how he’d want someone to wrap themselves around him and remind him of all the life he’d be leaving behind, to keep him there as long as possible.

What was soothing to him might be suffocating to the witcher, he feared, but some of the tension in Geralt’s body gradually eased with the brush of his fingers, and Jaskier continued as the minutes ticked away and the forest around them grew still save for the chirp of insects and the occasional rustle of a mouse in the straw behind him. Roach huffed quietly to herself, head low as she drowsed, and Jaskier couldn’t bear to ask himself how he would make that journey to Kaer Morhen, riding Geralt’s horse and carrying his swords, but without the witcher himself. The bard had thought he had finally achieved a plateau of calm, of something close enough to acceptance that he could be strong for Geralt’s sake, but a new swell of tears proved him wrong. Gods, what would he do in the morning, when- The thought rammed a knife through his heart. He couldn’t just _leave_ him. He couldn’t.... The quiet pressed in on him, left him deafened by the dull pounding in his head and behind his eyes, the tremulous question mark that whispered icily in his heart every time Geralt’s breathing changed minutely. 

“They don’t ever talk about this part in the stories,” the bard said huskily to drown the silence, to find that elusive place of composure again, sniffling but not daring to move either hand to dry his cheeks. “The lonely parts, I mean. There’s a lot more quiet in this whole hero-ing business than I thought, and I find that I don’t like it very much.” He swallowed the break in his voice, forcing it down for another few seconds. “You don’t deserve this, you know. You deserve… crowds kneeling when you pass by, and a city that would drape itself in black for you when they hear what’s happened. Not a bard who was too late to be any use, and a tumbling-down barn in the middle of nowhere. ‘Course, you’d probably just tell me this is ‘fitting’ or something else stoic and absurd, like you usually do.” 

He shook his head, sniffed again, and let his jaw rest against Geralt’s head, continuing his musing with, “Everything doesn’t have to be ‘fitting’. It doesn’t have to be just that... I don’t think I’ve ever actually seen you decide you want something and just… let yourself have it. Even where you traveled, that was always wherever you thought somebody could offer you a contract. Have you ever let yourself go somewhere just because you wanted to?” He gently resettled his arm around Geralt, careful not to disturb the quiet breaths while his own breathing began to hitch again. “Maybe w-we can go there next. Someplace you want to go. Maybe when this is... is all over w-we’ll go…” He stopped when a sob choked him, because he didn’t know where Geralt would want to go, and there wouldn’t be the chance to ask now. He nearly missed the drowsy murmur below his ear and froze, listening.

“Where… will you go… after...?” 

He hadn’t expected to hear the witcher’s voice again, especially not so calm and content. That unexpected gift was enough to steal Jaskier’s own voice entirely as he tried to pull together the tattered remains of his composure. Finally, he was able to croak, “We… _We_ are gonna go to the coast, t-to Oxenfurt or Attre. Somewhere that will melt this place out of our bones and get us horribly sunburnt.” If nothing else, he could at least paint a picture of where they’d go, something bright and warm for Geralt to hold onto. “We’ll visit the royal courts and collect a whole host of wealthy admirers for you. It’s well past time you had a… a royal patron to speak for you. And… I… I’ll...” He couldn’t keep his voice steady, stopped to take a long breath. 

“You’ll be all right…” came the gentle response, “... Have been… before.” The rest of the tenuous picture Jaskier was trying to design blurred and vanished, and he said, “Will I?” with a hard swallow. “See, now, that’s where you’re wrong; I’m going to be completely and irreparably _not_ all right, and it’s all gonna be your fault.” He was rewarded for his attempt at humor by a breath that would have been a wry chuckle if Geralt had the strength for it. In the silence that followed, Jaskier resumed the motion of his fingertips across the witcher’s hair, as much for his own comfort as Geralt’s. For a long time, the only interruption in the night’s stillness was the intermittent jump of the bard’s chest when a sob broke through his attempt to stay quiet, a short moan that caught in his throat before he swallowed it. When the other man spoke again, a slow weight hung on each word, dragging them into a mumbled drawl.

“W’ld you really… h’ve kept looking? Accum’lated bl’sters… like you said?” 

“You doubt me?” Jaskier replied, a watery smile pulling briefly at his mouth, then added, “Yes. Across the whole continent and back, if that’s what it took.” The low “hmmf” against his neck sounded bewildered, but glad, and Jaskier held the moment in his mind, tried to memorize it. After a long, long count of seconds, as long as he dared to steal for himself, he drew an unsteady breath and whispered, “I’m really, _really_ gonna miss you, Geralt.” The thinnest wisp of sound answered him, all Geralt could manage. Jaskier held him close, and pressed a kiss to the top of his head like a blessing. Then, he said quietly, “I know you’re tired. It’s okay if... if you want to sleep. I’ll be right here.” 

The dirty head under his chin turned just slightly to press closer, and Geralt’s breathing gradually began to slow, as if he’d waited to hear those words, waited for Jaskier to give permission before letting himself slip away. The rhythm was steady for now, but still shallow, still strained, and so soft he could barely feel it against his skin. 

Jaskier closed his eyes, too, and waited, let each minute drag its feet and linger at the door before disappearing into the night. He breathed, and he grieved, and he waited. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still have a few chapters to go. Um… *pushes tissues toward reader* Lark tells me not to apologize but… It… It was a perfect chapter break moment… Sorry. Feel free to send us your tears in review form.  
> (Disclaimer: Authors reserve the right to use reader tears to season future whump fics with more gut-punch drama pang lines and moments. Send at your own risk.)


	9. Chapter 9

Consciousness came slowly, like a sunbeam creeping across the ground, warming where it touched. Geralt was content to lay still for a time, breathing in the numb comfort of his half-doze. Someone’s sleep-deepened breaths rose and fell at his back, a pulse under his ear, and Geralt realized he was held loosely against someone’s chest, their hand limp at his waist. Awareness seeped past the haze, and confusion wandered in its wake. Geralt had expected to fall asleep to the gentle beat of a caring heart and arms around him that were the best sort of warmth and safety, and he’d expected to wake to whatever afterlife the gods had set aside for him.

He had not expected that afterlife to smell of old straw and the crisp air that marked the early hours of dawn. Nor had he expected it to contain someone else. He’d never really given much thought to what lay beyond the veil of death, figuring whatever fate awaited humans would be inevitably different for a witcher, and without any writings at Kaer Morhen on the afterlife beliefs of witchers themselves, he’d assumed he would never know until he experienced it himself.

But then pain rose in his awareness, throbbing across his leg, biting through his chest, buzzing in his head. If this was death, it was crueler than life, taking him and preserving him in a singular instant of pain and discomfort that would never end, poised like a drop of blood at the tip of a blade, right on the edge of peaceful darkness, but frozen as in ice, trapped in the last sensations his body had endured. But it hadn’t been this bad before. It hadn’t hurt quite as much, he thought, when the world had been dark and his mind and body had slipped into a drowsy calm. Now that he was more aware, the pain seemed all that much worse.

He couldn’t remember much of the previous night after Tomas had arrived, except that Jaskier had come, had assured him all was well before he’d fallen asleep. There was a hazy memory of tears in the dark, almost brushing his nose as they fell from a chin ducked to his dirty hair. There were words as well, tender and full of a sorrow that was too deep to fathom. He pulled back from the memory before the vise around his heart squeezed too hard, and took a slow, deep breath to relieve that pressure.

The hand at his waist stirred, and the head resting on his shifted groggily, before jerking away an instant later with a hoarse curse mumbled overhead. 

“Oh, Jaskier, you _idiot…_.” the voice groaned, the tone weighted with wretched misery as an arm came up across his chest, holding him close. “I’m sorry, Geralt... gods, I’m so sorry…” Trembling fingers pressed at his neck, seeking his pulse, and Geralt waited. If this was life, Jaskier would find his heart beating. If it was death, he wouldn’t. But the torturous hammer beating the anvil of his leg just above his knee was keeping time with the one striking like a gong behind his ribs, and that was a pulse, wasn’t it? But the fingers at his throat shook and fell away too soon to catch the slowed tempo. A hand came up to his head, soothing over the tender ache across his temple as the body behind him let out a thready whimper, a sound that quickly broke apart into sobs that shuddered through them both. 

Suddenly desperate to relieve those awful sounds of grief, Geralt tried to reach a hand up to his bard, but found he couldn’t do more than twitch his fingers. Instead, he took in a deliberate breath and whispered his name, like sunshine and selflessness on his lips. The sobs faltered, and the breaths froze entirely, while the hand on his head dropped to hover at Geralt’s chin to catch his next exhalation, and the next. 

“Geralt?” came the tremulous question. Then, as a third breath against his palm apparently answered, Jaskier softly gusted, “You’re alive…” sounding as disbelieving as the witcher himself felt. The arm across his chest tightened, wrapping him close as if he were something precious and fragile, something likely to be caught up and carried away with the slightest breath of wind. And maybe he was. Geralt couldn’t think clearly past the haze of pain and the dizzy dip and sway of sleep trying to pull him down again. There was a hand in his hair, and Jaskier whispering, “It’s okay. You’re okay… I’ve got you. W-what do you- Here, let me….”

Jaskier shifted behind him, pulling him up to rest more comfortably against the bard’s shoulder but the movement roused the slumbering pain to new heights, striking like basilisk’s fangs against his ribs and pulling a short groan from his throat. 

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry… There you go, I’ve got you.” Words rained down over his head but Geralt couldn’t grasp the meaning of them, though he thought they sounded kind, despite a trembling of tears in the voice. He tried to focus, to make sense of them, while the arm across his chest held him up and a hand moved the tickling strands of hair from his face before settling on his head, a comforting weight. “Geralt?” 

He knew that one, tried to answer, but all he could get out was a weak hum in the back of his throat, little more than a raspy breath. The sound seemed to be what Jaskier needed, though, prompting him to reach for something at his side. Very gently, the top of a flask touched his lips, waiting until he was ready before allowing him a small swallow of cool water, and then the straw rustled as Jaskier set the flask down. The chest behind his rose and fell in a deep, stuttered breath before the bard spoke again, quiet and close to his ear. 

“You made it, Geralt.” Jaskier’s voice sent minute vibrations through the witcher’s back even though the words were spoken with reverent softness, the meaning slow to follow in Geralt’s weary mind. “The sun’s rising and you’re still here to see it. You made it, and I just need you to stay with me now, all right?” 

Jaskier moved, reaching for something, and Geralt realized that the hand on his head had pressed his hair down, dampened with the sweat across his brow. Geralt frowned, the sensation prickling at his skin, but it was better than the chill that he’d thought would never leave him, as deep as the marrow in his bones, but now blessedly gone. 

“I’ve got you, I’m staying with you. All you have to do is rest right here.” 

A cloth, cool and soft, wiped the sticky sweat away and Geralt felt himself slipping. Sleep was dragging at his thoughts like a lazy undertow, sliding him further from shore with every labored breath across the sand.

“Just stay with me, Geralt…. Keep fighting, please....” 

If fighting had meant anything more than relaxing his aching body into the bard’s hold, Geralt might have protested. As it was, sleep was dragging him down like a stone through water, and that cool cloth felt so good against his fever-warmed skin that Geralt drifted back into an exhausted slumber within minutes.

* * *

The gifts Jaskier had just received had been the slightest, tiniest things - his name whispered, a breath of reply - but his heart was so full from them he could barely breathe, head tilted back against the straw bales behind him as he whispered, “Thank you… thank you...” to the sky. The sun had risen while they’d both slept, and the gaps in the roof were like chunks of sapphire, wisps of cloud crawling by lazily. 

The witcher sagged heavily against him, unaware and motionless once again, his and Jaskier’s shirts both soaked with sweat from the fever that had given up its hold in the night. They both smelled, Jaskier’s back was stiff, and he’d never felt so exhausted, but he’d also never been so utterly, purely grateful, like the sun would beam straight through him like crystal if he stood in its light. 

Some blessed combination of sheer tenacity and mysterious witcher mutation had brought Geralt through that dark night alive. The potions must have had some efficacy to them after all, maybe just enough to turn the tide. Jaskier felt tears running ticklish down his face yet again, but he didn’t care in the slightest. Geralt was alive - Jaskier could feel the witcher’s breath warm against his neck, the astoundingly slow pulse against the bard’s fingers now that he could focus, could wait the extra seconds between. 

As his giddy joy slowly ebbed into a low, pounding gladness, a little of last night’s fear shouldered into his heart beside it. True, Geralt was alive... but he was far from well. He’d managed one word, the whole of his strength going into saying Jaskier’s name, and then had fallen back under again. He was breathing, but with audible effort, hardly any better than the begging breaths of last night. And the groan when Jaskier had shifted them had been undisguised agony, proving that the damage wreaked by the villagers remained unhealed.

Geralt was alive, but Jaskier had no way of knowing how fragile a foothold he now clung to. He drew a deep breath and rubbed his face a little drier against his free shoulder, exhaling slowly to calm the rapid beat of his heart, and tried to think. What Geralt needed now was water, as much as Jaskier could coax into him. That wretched fever was finally gone, and would have left him dry as a desert. Then there was that terrible wound to his leg and his broken hands… After a few moments of listening to the other man’s dogged breaths, however, Jaskier dismissed the thought of trying to tackle those yet. He’d make sure Geralt kept breathing first, watch and listen until he was certain they’d made it a good few steps away from the threshold of death’s door. 

“You’re going to make it,” Jaskier murmured to the man he held against him, fiercely proud of his friend’s stubborn spirit, fiercely glad for every rough breath. 

The sun rose little by little, eventually high enough to peer down at them through the old roof. And Jaskier stayed put, his whole world centered on the rise and fall of the witcher’s chest, the gentle pace of sunshine across the dirt floor to mark the hours, the little frisson of victory in his heart every time another swallow of water made it down Geralt’s throat. 

By late morning, Roach had gotten curious about the lack of activity and come to look them over. She ran her velvety muzzle across her master’s chest and head, then snorted once into Jaskier’s hair, which he chose to take as approval.

“Thanks, Roach,” he said, pushing her nose a safe distance away before giving her a pat. “I’m doing my best. Might be on your own for a few meals yet, though.” The mare was free to roam, and would be wise enough to go where she needed for food and water, Jaskier hoped. Whatever combination of rest, care, and the witcher’s own abilities had gotten Geralt this far seemed to be working, although he remained steadfastly unconscious, rousing only when Jaskier prompted him to drink, or accidentally shifted too much in an attempt to recover feeling in his numb legs. 

Geralt didn’t speak again, but also showed no signs of declining, so by midafternoon, the bard tentatively decided it was safe enough to try lying Geralt down again for a bit. He’d saved most of the water in the flasks for the ill witcher, but Jaskier wasn’t nearly as dehydrated as the other man, and certain needs were becoming increasingly urgent. Over the span of a minute or two, like a nervous mother laying her fretful child in its cradle, Jaskier gradually worked them both close enough to the bedroll to ease Geralt down. As soon as he tried to stand, a ragged chorus of aches and strained muscles staggered him, harmonizing with the unnerving crackles from his spine. Gods, he felt old, at least twice the age he’d been when he first set foot in this barn. 

Luckily for his pride, Roach was the only one to witness his clumsy, numb-legged stumbling out to the trees and back. A quick peek in on Geralt showed him still resting, not looking exactly comfortable, but not looking any worse either, so Jaskier decided to take advantage of the remaining daylight to try setting up one of the simple snares from the saddlebags. He’d finished the last crust of bread from his own bags earlier in the day, and this would be a serious problem soon. If he caught something, and was able to cook it down to a broth, maybe Geralt would even take a little. The thought cheered him, speeding his steps to their bundled belongings.

Thankfully, the villagers hadn’t stolen the little bundles of twine and notched sticks, and Jaskier took all three of them. To set these properly, like Geralt always did, he really ought to spend an hour or so identifying the little game trails or burrows, placing the traps strategically nearby, but he didn’t dare leave Geralt for so long. Instead, he poked about the treeline and chose three spots that looked vaguely right, dropping a handful of clover near each for good measure. The activity felt good, despite his stiffened muscles, and he trudged back to the barn with a sense of satisfaction; even if he didn’t catch anything before dark, he’d just check in the morning, and odds were he’d catch something sooner or later. 

A few steps from the barn, he looked up from his tingling feet to see Roach staring out at him, ears swiveling nervously. The next moment, the sound of breathless coughing set the bard running, pins-and-needles forgotten. 

He caught a brief glimpse of Geralt’s eyes half-open, one hand tugging weakly at his shirt as if the dark fabric were constricting his breathing, causing the short, dry coughs wracking his body. Then Jaskier had shoved his arm underneath the broad shoulders and levered the witcher to sit up against him sideways, bracing him against the staccato coughing as he babbled, “Geralt? I’m back, I’m here, I shouldn’t have left, I’m sorry…” The other man could hardly draw breath before another spasm seized him. “Geralt? Geralt, just breathe. Come on… Come on, please….” 

Gradually, the vise-tight coughing began to ease, Geralt’s head dropping hard against Jaskier’s shoulder with a thin groan the bard refused to classify as a whimper. His own heart was still going at a gallop, hand shaking where he lightly laid it against the sharp rise-and-fall of the witcher’s chest, reminding the both of them, “Just breathe… Slow and easy…” Not so easy, actually, when his whole body was buzzing with adrenaline again, neither of the two men able to follow the bard’s instructions just yet. 

So whatever was wrong in Geralt’s chest meant he couldn’t yet breathe laid out on his back, not enough, not for long. Duly noted. Jaskier waited until they’d both calmed a little before beginning the slow, awkward shuffle back to their trusty wall of straw. Somehow, all his aches seemed to both flare up and ease as he settled back into the same familiar position once again. 

All of Geralt’s meager energy appeared to be channeled into catching his breath, his head tipped back on Jaskier’s shoulder. He couldn’t tell if the witcher was still conscious, and certainly wouldn’t blame him for embracing oblivion again after weathering that assault on his battered ribs. Geralt’s eyes had been open for a brief while, though, the first time Jaskier had seen that remarkable gold in a full day. That had to be a good sign, even if his chest was still giving him grief, the bard mused. 

“Jas…?” 

The hoarse, confused voice only managed the first syllable, but that was more than enough to draw a smile across Jaskier’s face as he replied, “I’m here. You’re okay. Just gonna keep you sitting up for a while to spare your ribs, all right?” 

Geralt hummed low in his throat, apparently in agreement, and seemed to drift off again, but the smile lingered on Jaskier’s face for a long while after. The other man’s breathing remained even and calm, just shallow, and while Jaskier couldn’t properly call their exchange a conversation, it wasn’t terribly far off from their usual interactions either.

As the sun set, Jaskier’s eyelids had begun to sink with it, his eyes hot and gritty with weariness. When the first little movement nudged him awake, he wrote the sensation off as part of the disorienting swing back to full consciousness. But then Geralt trembled again, a small frown creasing his brow, and Jaskier felt his heart turn icy. The air was cool, but not cold, and now that he was paying attention, he could suddenly tell how much warmer Geralt felt against his shoulder. 

“No. No, Geralt, please….” he whispered, trying to tamp down the panic, trying to think. The fever had been kept at bay all day, even without Jaskier doing anything… and that had been thanks to the little dark potions. So maybe Geralt just needed another. Jaskier refused to consider any other options, and immediately leaned over to extract one of the remaining three vials from the bags.

“All right, Geralt. Got another one of your potions here. This’ll help with the fever.” But Geralt only seemed to register the foul taste that touched his lips, not Jaskier’s words, and turned his head away with a queasy groan. “Geralt, please,” the bard said, sighing as he tried to follow the witcher’s movement without spilling the dark liquid. “You _need_ this. Your fever’s back. And you’re not about to get up and walk off, so I can keep this up all night, you stubborn….”

Finally, either Jaskier’s words began to sink in or his persistence outlasted Geralt’s energy, and Jaskier held the flask for the witcher to wash down the taste. 

“There we are… Better soon, Geralt. Just try and rest.” The ill man only shivered, and Jaskier hooked one of their cloaks with the toe of his boot, dragging it closer until he could reach it and spread it over both of them. “There you go. You’ll feel better when you wake up.” 

Something else had occurred to Jaskier earlier that day, as the world quietly revolved around their little shelter here. If Geralt was fighting back from his horrendous injuries, slowly improving, it was possible the same could be said for Tomas, and they would have no way to know until the man himself walked into sight. And if he came back, he would doubtless have as many able-bodied men from that village at his back as he could muster, a thought that now made Jaskier slip his dagger free of its sheath and set it close at hand. 

Staying here, exactly where Tomas had seen them last, was the worst possible strategic choice. Even moving a mile down the road would be better than this; at least that way, he’d hear them tramping through the woods and have more than two seconds’ warning. But Jaskier couldn’t hold Geralt in the saddle unconscious, and until Geralt could breathe well enough to lie down, even cobbling together some sort of sled or litter to drag him on was out of the question. Which left them just as they were: vulnerable in the dark, their only protection the dagger a moment’s reach away and Jaskier’s prayer that he’d struck the blacksmith hard enough to either delay his return or prevent it entirely.

Sleep came in a long chain of catnaps caught between night sounds from the woods around them and Geralt’s restless movements, both of which tugged the bard out of his doze into alertness. But by the time dawn finally breathed warm light past the treetops, only moths and birds had invaded their shelter, and Geralt’s face and neck were comfortably cool under Jaskier’s touch once more. 

This time, before the bard left the barn to see if his haphazardly-placed snares had done their job, he rearranged their odd little nest to ensure Geralt would be able to rest comfortably while he was away. Roach’s saddle made for a lumpy pillow, even padded with her blanket and Jaskier’s cloak, but it kept Geralt’s upper body raised enough that even after an hour of Jaskier sitting nearby, braiding bits of straw and watching, the witcher was still resting well. Pleased with his innovation, Jaskier set the flask against the other man’s hand, patted his shoulder, and said, “Be back in a few minutes,” before standing to stretch the kinks out of his spine and stumble out into the sunshine. 

Whether by luck or by some innate skill of Jaskier’s in snare-setting, one of the traps had caught a rabbit in the night. One of the perks of traveling with an experienced hunter like Geralt was that the task of turning game into edible food rarely, if ever, fell to the bard, and while he was fairly confident he was equal to the task, he wasn’t looking forward to any portion of it. But neither of them could live on water alone, and the only other source of food available to them would be any berries Jaskier happened to come across that also happened to not be poisonous. Faced with that unappealing alternative, Jaskier rolled up his sleeves and set grimly to work. 

By the time he was sitting in front of a crackling fire, stirring the cookpot, he had traveled the road from never wanting to eat rabbit again to being determined to eat this particular one as revenge. Blessedly, the stream wasn’t far, and he was able to scrub his hands and arms clean, as well as refill their flasks. As he stirred the simple stew, waiting for the meat to cook down just a little more into something Geralt could easily drink, he marshalled his sleep-deprived mind to plan ahead for the night. 

They only had two more potions, and Geralt’s fever could only be due to the festering wound in his leg that Jaskier hadn’t been able to clean sufficiently. An idea had grown in the back of his mind through the morning, and the longer he stirred the stew and his thoughts, the more certain he felt that this was the right choice. 

But first, he set aside the finished stew and boiled water for tea. Both he and Geralt could use a dose of something warm and soothing, and Geralt especially would appreciate the pain relief from the willow bark. The resulting tea held a strong earthy flavor with a bitter nip to it that honey would have smoothed over nicely, but even so, it wasn’t unpleasant. Certainly better than the other concoction he’d had to bully the other man into drinking of late, Jaskier reasoned, as he carried the pair of wooden cups over to where the witcher lay dozing. 

“Look at this, Geralt: I am actually bringing you _tea_ in _bed_. You wouldn’t get service like this out at some run-of-the-mill inn out in town, now, would you?” Setting his own cup aside, he tapped Geralt’s shoulder softly. It was hard to tell, but he thought Geralt had been awake more often today, another good sign. Geralt awake-but-resting looked very much like Geralt sleeping, but he’d been shifting about a little and Jaskier had heard a quiet sigh once or twice. “Come on, sleepy,” he said encouragingly, as Geralt frowned. “This will make you more comfortable, and I’ve got to ask you something.” The witcher’s eyelids opened to half-mast, blinking blearily and slowly focusing on Jaskier. The dark smudges under his eyes were a few shades lighter now, and the raw lines on his neck had all but vanished - small but heartening signs.

“There you are - welcome back,” he said lightly, guilt weighing a little at his heart for what he had to ask of his friend. “Here. This is tea with willow bark, expertly made by yours truly. As long as you don’t think too hard about the flavor, it’s not all that bad.” He helped Geralt take a swallow or two, the witcher’s hand lifting briefly as if to take the cup himself before his energy flagged and pulled his arm back down again. “Geralt... I’m really sorry, and you’re not gonna like it, but… I’m going to have to try one of these on your leg.” He held up one of the little inky vials where Geralt could see, and waited as his words sank in. 

He knew this was a witcher-approved use of the potions, and had seen Geralt do this himself before. However, that had only ever been with the worst sort of wounds, probably because not only did it use up a whole vial, but it also looked spectacularly painful. The tired golden eyes drifted from the potion to his leg, and Geralt sighed before nodding. 

“Yeah,” Jaskier said, sympathetic and not looking forward to this himself either. “I thought you’d appreciate a little forewarning, given how it, ah, sizzles. But tea first. That’ll help a little, at least.”

Finally, after he’d helped Geralt finish his cup, and the dregs in his own cup had gone cold, the bard decided he’d put it off long enough. His own aches had faded a little, making him realize just how sore he still was from that brawl and everything since. Hopefully, Geralt had found similar relief, some paltry compensation for what Jaskier was about to do to him. 

“This will help,” he promised the both of them under his breath as he knelt by Geralt’s wounded side and undid the bandages. The sight of the angry, weeping gash made him wince, but he simply said, “All right?” and waited for Geralt to settle against the bundled cloth before tipping the dark liquid over the wound. 

The reaction was immediate, the potion bubbling up viciously as Geralt stiffened with a strangled sound, broken hands clenched in the straw. Jaskier dropped the empty vial to pin the witcher’s lower leg against the involuntary jolts Geralt couldn’t seem to help, because he knew he wouldn’t have the willpower to do this to Geralt again, and if the potion didn’t get down into the deepest part of the wound, this misery would be for nothing. 

“I’m sorry, Geralt. I’m sorry,” he repeated, free hand wrapped around the other man’s shaking wrist to try and provide some kind of reassurance. “I know it hurts…but this will help, I promise.” Far too slowly, the witcher’s tight breaths began to loosen, and Jaskier’s heart hurt at the miserable hint of a groan that lingered at the end of each. When Geralt’s bruised fists opened by degrees, the bard sat back, keeping his hand on the other’s bandaged wrist for a long while afterwards, fighting down the trembling threat of tears he simply didn’t have the energy for. Everything was all right. Geralt was healing, and would heal even quicker now. Soon they’d be able to leave this place, with Geralt in the saddle and Jaskier rambling along behind like always.

Already the potions and the days of rest had begun to work a visible change on the witcher. Along with the hint of color back in his face had come a lightening of the cruel bruises on his hands, the plum-dark swelling reduced to reveal fingers less destroyed than Jaskier had feared. The hand currently under Jaskier’s was battered, but whole; though at least two had certainly been broken, the fingers were blessedly straight. The other hand was worse, but only by virtue of the index finger, bent unnaturally to the side. Gods willing, it wouldn’t be too late to set it right once Geralt was fit to do so, or fit to tell Jaskier how. The thought of Geralt unable to wield a sword with his characteristic grace and skill made his eyes prickle painfully.

He was just tired, was all, and he pushed himself to his feet when the light began to change to get their forgotten meal. Geralt hadn’t said another word, clearly drained from the ordeal, and only kept his eyes open long enough to drink the cup of broth Jaskier held for him. After downing a cup of the stew himself, Jaskier trudged to the stream to refill their flasks, and stopped outside the barn as he returned to look at the rosy sunset for a few bleary seconds. Deciding to take advantage of the fact that nobody could laugh at him for going to bed at sundown like a child, the bard shook out his own bedroll, thus far untouched among their supplies, and stretched out close beside Geralt with a long groan that evolved into a yawn somewhere along the way. 

Even if he somehow didn’t hear Geralt in the night, the first movement from the witcher’s arm would knock against his back, and Jaskier’s dagger lay on the ground under his hand. He was as prepared as he could be for whatever the night brought, and he simply mumbled, “G’night, Geralt,” before giving in to the exhaustion dragging him down. 

He’d simply blinked, and the world was immediately dark all around him. After a few long, baffled seconds, Jaskier heard crickets trilling calmly nearby and realized he must’ve already been asleep for hours, and the night was well along. He’d woken with his ears pricked, though, heart already thudding and dagger clutched in his hand, and he pushed up on an elbow, listening hard. But Roach’s dark shape was still and calm, and nothing disturbed the peace except for the unsteady exhalation behind Jaskier. 

When he turned over, Geralt mumbled something that fell jumbled into the shadows, restless against the bundled cloaks. His breathing was a little faster, but not strained, and Jaskier wasn’t sure what to do exactly, if he ought to leave the witcher to his sleep, or interrupt what looked like an uncomfortable dream. 

The other man resolved the question for him an instant later, his head rolling to face away with a groan full of pain, a sound Jaskier had become intimately familiar with over the past few days. He sat up hastily, a dozen alarming reasons why Geralt might be in pain flashing into his mind, from his leg aching to whatever was broken in his chest getting worse, and dropped the dagger to lay a hand on Geralt’s shoulder.

“Geralt, what’s wrong? Geralt?” No response, just sharp breaths under his hand. “Talk to me, what’s-” Geralt slurred his name into the dark then, low and urgent, and a sliver of fear lodged in the bard’s heart. He shook the other man’s shoulder, just a little, to try and pull Geralt out of the haze of pain he seemed trapped in, and the witcher jolted forward with a gasp. Jaskier pulled his hand back, realizing as Geralt’s uncanny eyes snapped to him, to the walls, the patchy roof, then back, always back to Jaskier, that he had been asleep after all. 

Before Jaskier could stop him, or say more than, “What’s-” the other man tried to lunge upright, but didn’t get more than halfway to sitting before crumpling back with a grunt and one arm wrapped hard around his stomach. Jaskier darted close, hands flat and firm on each of the other man’s shoulders to keep him still, a move that would have earned him a bloodied nose at the very least, had he dared it when the witcher was anywhere close to his usual strength. 

“Geralt, it’s only me - calm down!” he said, insisting and entreating at the same time. “It’s all right - I didn’t mean to- to startle you, or…” But Geralt seemed to suddenly see him now, eyes wide in the dark as he panted, and Jaskier changed tack mid-sentence. “Are… are you actually awake now? Can you hear me?” 

At first, Geralt just stared back, face a mask of confusion. Then his chest lifted once, held steady, and fell again, a deliberate calming of his rapid breathing; he blinked, looked back at Jaskier and said roughly, “You’re not hurt?” Conditioned to answer that peremptory tone at once after numerous near-death experiences on hunts, Jaskier immediately replied, “Of course not,” adding, “It’s just us and Roach here.” He sat back a little to give the other man some space, but Geralt tried to sit up again, gaze intent on Jaskier as if he didn’t believe him and needed to see for himself that Jaskier was in one piece. “For pity’s sake, Geralt, lie down!” 

This time Geralt listened, too busy breathing through the renewed pain to move again just yet, and Jaskier slowly removed his hands, still watching the witcher through the dark. Geralt was more alert than he’d been in days, but seemed to be fighting against already-encroaching sleep to pry his eyes open every few seconds, apparently just to look at Jaskier and verify whatever he’d seen in his dreams had been only that. And all Jaskier could do was look back, exasperated, bone-weary, and fond to the point of helplessness of this man who would so readily ignore his own injuries just to make _certain_ Jaskier was all right. 

He shook his head with a small smile and reached for Geralt’s discarded cloak, brushing the straw from one side as he said, “I’m fine. I’m not hurt, or in danger, or….” With a last shake, the cloth was clean enough, and he draped it over the witcher, chuckling under his breath. “Just very, very tired. And maybe ever-so-slightly traumatized,” he added wryly, sitting back on his heels as each of Geralt’s blinks grew longer and longer. Gods, it was good to see his eyes clear again. “Honestly… Why on earth would you ask _me_ if _I’m_ all right when you’re the one lying there with…” He trailed off, shaking his head again, and turned back to his own bedroll. 

He’d thought the other man had nodded off again - to more pleasant dreams, Jaskier hoped. He was not expecting the quiet rumble of, “It was Tomas… I thought….” Geralt’s voice faltered, but when Jaskier turned back around, the drowsy gaze that rested on him was sincerely relieved. 

Impossible, Jaskier thought to himself. How utterly impossible that people believed there was no heart in this man, that he was simply a soulless beast who killed other beasts. After a week of horrific torture that would have destroyed any man, followed by arduous days of balancing on the dagger’s edge of life and death, nightmares were inescapable, yet Geralt woke in a panic not over his own safety, but Jaskier’s. The honor of holding this place in the witcher’s tremendous heart was so staggering it was almost painful, but Jaskier wouldn’t have traded it for all the noble titles or thrones on the Continent. 

Sleep seemed to have taken the witcher under once again, his breathing smooth and even, his expression relaxed, and Jaskier simply murmured, “Sleep well,” absently smoothing the fabric over Geralt’s shoulder before stretching out on his back with a long sigh. He set his dagger close by and shut his eyes, trying not to think of menacing footsteps in the dark. 

Just as he’d begun to drift a little, though, he heard that familiar low voice again, slow with sleep, say, “Thank you…” and the bard thought his heart might just overflow. Instead of breaking the silence and keeping Geralt from much-needed rest, Jaskier just moved his hand a few inches, letting his knuckles rest against the witcher’s in wordless acknowledgment, and let the crickets sing them both to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As it turns out, tears make for potent fuel when it comes to creating sofd comfort moments (and a little more drama for good measure)! This newly expanded section wound up being so long we split this chapter in two so now the fic has 11 chapters total. We hope you are pleased and.... um... we are also deeply and sincerely sorry for the wait. The next chapter will go up this coming Monday and will hopefully contain enough Sunshine Bard and Slowly-Learning-To-Be-Sunshine Witcher to heal your tortured souls!  
> <3 Wolf


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Double-size chapter for added sofdness!

Geralt drifted for a long while, drawn back to consciousness by pain or breathlessness or fever, only to slide away again into sleep, but gradually, he felt his strength growing. A couple times he woke to confusion and couldn’t remember how he’d come to be here, injured so badly, nearly to the point of death. Usually if he was hurt badly, there would be grass under his back, damp with dew or itching where it brushed his skin. Usually he’d smell the blood of whatever beast had laid him low, its blood and his mingled in the air until, as time passed, the scent changed to that of decay. Usually, he’d lay and try to rest, to meditate or sleep until his body healed enough for him to drag himself up and to where Roach waited with potions and bandages in the packs across her back. If he was lucky, he’d sometimes be found by grateful villagers who checked to see if he was successful in his hunt of the beast that plagued their families. Sometimes they’d take him with them and he’d wake in a healer’s hut. 

This was different. Not a healer’s hut, but not the vulnerable openness of the wild either. No stink of rot or wild animals wandering past, no herbs drying in the windows, flavoring the air with their bitter leaves. Here there were new things. Things that he’d never had before. Words and gestures never before directed at him. 

His memory was a patchwork of them. There were moments missing, turning up fractured and confused, but from the jumble of memories, Geralt could piece together that he’d been tended, night and day, without fail. He’d felt Jaskier changing the bandage on his leg, checking and rewrapping the wounds on both of his wrists, peering at the bruising to the witcher’s head and chest as if he could gauge their progress at a glance. That meant this had happened more times than Geralt knew, more times than he remembered. 

And in among the tangled lines of the past were things that confused him… at least at first. 

It confused him that something as simple as a flask held to his lips could have such meaning, could make his heart ache with gratitude. That something as small as the circles traced on his arm by the bard’s restless fingers could be so mesmerizing, so soothing to his exhausted mind and body. That those motions, paired with the steady thump of his friend’s heart against his back could lull his mind into drowsy comfort swifter than any amount of drink ever had. 

Then there were the words. _You’re okay… I’m right here… I’ve got you…_ Lines so simple he’d expected his mind to identify and dismiss them as meaningless talk, but instead they remained, curled around his heart like the warmth of a winter cloak. Had he been well, he might have brushed them off, but when he was lying there shivering and miserable, they’d been… helpful. Comforting. 

He’d never had someone else try to comfort him except for Roach, who, when a hunt went very badly, might nuzzle his hair or huff at his chest in concern for her master. But she couldn’t do more than that. No more than being there, listening, waiting, helping him up when he was finally well enough to call to her. This was different. Jaskier’s words had been as deliberate as a strike with a blade, as doggedly constant as the turning of the sun and moon, and they’d had no purpose other than to soothe and reassure. 

Just simple words and simple gestures. 

An arm around his shoulders, pulling him up from suffocating shadows.

_Slow and easy._

A cloak when he shivered with fever.

_There you go._

Small circles traced on his sleeve.

_Just rest._

Even when his tending had required putting the witcher through some level of pain while wrapping or cleaning his wounds, Jaskier had worked quickly, taken time to check his breathing and pulse after, and whispered endless apologies. Those words lingered as well, had become a sort of mantra that the bard repeated to him nearly every time he woke.

_I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have left._

_I’m sorry, I’ve got you._

_I’m sorry, I know it hurts._

The apologies especially confused him. This miserable state was in no way Jaskier’s fault, yet he seemed to blame himself for every discomfort Geralt experienced while in his care. And all of these, apologies and assurances alike, were words he’d never had in any healer’s hut and certainly never from Roach, supportive though she was. Since he’d never had them and had always recovered without them, Geralt had figured they were superfluous. Just words, with little to no meaning and no discernable purpose beyond giving the speaker something to say, to conform to some unanimously-decided social rule that one must speak to another, that silence was indifference. 

Now though… Geralt was fascinated by these tiny gifts, by how they could warm his heart and soothe his aches, calm fear and summon restful, healing sleep. 

Just words and gestures. 

Simple, and yet far more complex than he’d ever thought possible. 

Geralt drifted through the memories, surfacing briefly when Jaskier roused him for a drink of water or tea or broth. At some point, he was lowered to lie on his back in the straw, his head pillowed on bundled-up fabric, and a part of him missed the warmth and closeness of before, feared the suffocating pressure that had built in his chest the last time Jaskier had left him. But this time he continued to breathe peacefully, the weight on his chest relieved and the ache in his abdomen fading day by day. 

Time continued in brief moments of wakefulness, sometimes to daylight, sometimes to moonlight, always to the beat of his friend’s heart nearby. Daylight brought the sounds of movement and work, and sometimes he would take a few minutes to just listen before Jaskier realized he was awake and came to offer water or broth or fuss over his bandages. He listened as the bard gave Roach a thorough brush-down, talking to her all the while and exclaiming on his luck at having caught two more rabbits, presumably with the simple snares taken from Geralt’s pack. He listened to the mutterings and curses as Jaskier prepared the meal, and cracked his eyes open when the scent of cooked meat reached him. 

He ate a little and then slept, and woke again to moonlight and crickets and soft breathing at his side that told him Jaskier was sleeping. Usually the bard slept with his lute close at hand, one arm slung over the case protectively, but tonight the lute was settled a few feet away with their things. Jaskier had his back turned so he faced the wide expanse of the barn, and Geralt lay for a time, drowsily puzzling through the change. Jaskier’s hands hadn’t been hurt, not as far as Geralt had seen, anyway. There was no reason for the bard to shun the instrument he so adored. But then a fox darted through the barn, deft paws scuffing the earth, and Jaskier startled awake, sitting up with his dagger in hand almost before the animal’s bushy tail had vanished into the night. 

A bizarre warmth spread in Geralt’s chest as the bard mumbled a curse in the animal’s direction, then glanced his way in the dark before settling back down to sleep, a solid wall between Geralt and the world. Witchers weren’t rescued, weren’t mourned, and they certainly weren’t protected. But then, Geralt thought, as sleep tugged at his awareness once more, witchers also didn’t usually have friends, and he found that, strange though it might be, it was... nice, to know that someone was there, keeping watch. And in between the wakeful moments of sun and moon, care and keeping, Geralt pondered. 

His bard was more capable than he’d given him credit for. Geralt had always assumed that because Jaskier had grown up in and around cities, he’d never be quite adept in preparing his own food, let alone setting a snare to catch it in the first place. Certainly he’d been learning quickly since his travels with the witcher, but Geralt had still thought of him as a fish out of water, floundering along as best he could in an environment he couldn’t be expected to thrive in. And yet here he was, keeping not only himself but a witcher and his horse alive in a run-down barn in the woods, with nothing but his wits and endless determination to keep him going. It was amazing and strange and ever-so-slightly embarrassing, a feeling Geralt felt certain would only grow when he was well enough for the bard to tease him for his past disparaging comments on Jaskier’s inability to make a fire. 

The next time he woke, it was without the press of still-needed sleep over his eyelids, and Geralt blinked into the sunny interior of the barn, surveying their makeshift camp with clarity for the first time. There was a wide swath of straw across the ground, the saddle and blanket beside it marking the space as Roach’s, though the mare herself was nowhere to be seen. The remains of a campfire whispered smoke nearby, cookpot and utensils arranged beside it. Closer at hand were the saddlebags and other items, lute and swords tucked safely to one side, and a bedroll laid out beside Geralt’s makeshift sickbed. 

Geralt raised his head, grimacing at the ache in his neck, and gingerly sat up, leaning back against the bales as the world tipped dizzily. Hunger grumbled in his belly and thirst sat stubbornly in his throat, but he paid them no mind, frowning as he realized he was alone. Both Jaskier and Roach were missing, and for a moment worry churned uncomfortably in his empty stomach, but then he realized the flasks were gone as well, and a tapering trail of straw led from Roach’s corner to the door. He settled back, blowing out a breath as worry turned to peace once more. 

Within minutes, the merry chirping of birds outside faltered, startled by the thump of hooves on packed earth, and Jaskier appeared in the wide doorway, Roach’s reins in hand and the water flasks slung over his shoulder. He looked uncharacteristically disheveled, the turquoise of his trousers faded and stained, still crusted with dirt that had dug into the fabric in a way that would ordinarily draw deep annoyance and endless complaint from the bard. But instead, Jaskier just looked tired, his hair and clothes rumpled like he’d just woken up. 

The bard’s eyes roved immediately to where Geralt sat, as if the glance were a natural part of his stepping over the threshold, and he stopped so suddenly Roach knocked him forward a step. She snorted in annoyance, sidestepping Jaskier, who let her reins go as he said, “Geralt! You shouldn’t be sitting up…. Should you?” He crossed the barn quickly, a frown overtaking his features, and set the flasks down as he crouched beside Geralt, casting a suspicious eye over the witcher and the arm wrapped around his sore ribs. “I mean, you don’t look as dreadful as you did, but you still don’t look…” Another skeptical once-over. “... y’know, _well,_ yet.”

Geralt snorted, shifting in a failed attempt to find a more comfortable position. 

“I’m not a child. I know I look like-” 

“ _I was trying_ to be diplomatic,” Jaskier said pointedly as he sat down in the straw and reached to drag the saddlebags to his side. “How are you feeling?” he added tentatively, and Geralt considered the question. In all honesty? Like he’d been run over by a two-ton kikimora, but somehow he didn’t think that description would ease the worry hidden beneath his friend’s hopeful tone. So instead he went with, “Rough,” and left it at that for now.

“Right. Good.... Is that good? It sounds… better, at least.” 

Geralt gave a brief grunt of agreement, and Jaskier went on, “Well, since you might actually stay awake long enough this time to answer, I did have a question…” Hands occupied with untangling strips of bandages, Jaskier still managed to gesture toward Geralt with his eyebrows, wincing slightly as the movement pressed on the dark bruise over his eye. “Is there anything we ought to do about your hands before I take a look at your leg again? Or do your potions sort out things like, um, broken bones, too?” 

Geralt was distracted from his frowning survey of the bard’s bruised face and he looked down, a curse slipping past his lips at the sight of his hands. He’d estimated two broken fingers on his left, one on his right, and that seemed to be the case, going by the dull ache that sharpened with every attempted movement of those fingers. All but one were minor enough breaks that they’d remained in place, begun to heal without the need for resetting. But his right index finger was bent at an angle, stiff and wrong. The bone should have been set long ago - the day it had happened, if he’d had any say in it. Jaskier couldn’t be faulted for leaving it, not when Geralt’s death had seemed so certain only a short time ago, but now he felt his heart sink at the realization that while he could still move his hands, he couldn’t curl his fingers without increasing the throbbing pain that circled them like overly-tight gloves. With the potions working in his system, the damage had started to heal, but in the case of that one finger, that healing would have to be undone to get it in the right position again. 

That meant re-breaking, and while Geralt was fairly certain he could talk Jaskier through setting a bone, he wasn’t so sure the bard could handle breaking the bone first without losing his lunch. Geralt was not keen to add the scent of fresh vomit to the list of unpleasant smells he currently carried on his person after kneeling for a week in mud and blood and spending the next few days drenched in fever sweats. 

With only the index finger on his right hand needing immediate attention, he could probably handle it on his own without too much trouble. It would hurt, certainly, hurt like he was yanking his own finger off completely, but the pain would be only slightly lessened by Jaskier doing it himself, and the bard had already done so much.

To Jaskier he just said, “I’ll have to set this one. The rest are in place and healing.” 

“Right. Um, so,” the bard began, bandages now laid in neat, folded strips across his leg, “with the caveat that I did spend my university days studying music, not medicine - much to my parents’ dismay - I am pretty sure that you’re not supposed to use your currently-broken bones to set your _other_ currently-broken bones.” 

Geralt gave a disinterested hum. There were probably countless things Jaskier’s professors at Oxenfurt would turn their noses up at and say weren’t supposed to be done, and Geralt had a feeling that, their collective misadventures pooled together, he and Jaskier had burned through much of that list just in the past few days. 

He moved to begin, but just the act of curling the fingers of his left hand in an attempt to grip his right proved more painful than he’d anticipated, drawing a grimace across his face.The muscles had become stiff and cramped, and Geralt cursed under his breath. Jaskier winced in sympathetic reflection of the witcher’s expression.

“You know… I could…”

Geralt grit his teeth and tried again, curling his fingers as far as he could and feeling muscle and bone protest with a vengeance. He pushed it until nausea started churning in his gut and his jaw began to ache. 

“Geralt? _I_ can… I mean, I _can…_ if-”

He let his head fall back against the bales, breathing through his nose and letting his fingers relax back into their stiffened places. It was clear he wouldn’t be setting any bones himself today. Not without passing out a couple times. Had he been alone, that would have been the only course of action. Re-break the bone, pass out, wake up, and set it. But with Jaskier fidgeting more and more with Geralt’s every attempt, it would do them both good to just let the bard handle this one, give him something to do beyond watch and fret.

“Fine…” His voice was more strained than he liked, but he could see the relief in the younger man’s face as he jutted his chin, indicating his right hand. “You’ll have to break it first.”

“Wait, _what_?” Jaskier stammered. “I thought it needed to be _set!_ Why on earth would you…?” 

Geralt shook his head, saying, “It’s been left too long.” Then as Jaskier’s face fell in a way that looked far too much like guilt, he added, “It should’ve been set that first day. By the time you’d arrived, it had already begun to heal.” 

The bard’s rueful frown only dug deeper, notching between his brows, and he said, “Should have gotten there that much sooner then, shouldn’t I?”

As Jaskier carefully lifted Geralt’s hand, the witcher spoke again.

“I’m glad you didn’t.” The bard’s blue eyes met his in surprise, and Geralt felt a flare of fondness warm his heart, tempered by the memory of Tomas’s violent ways and Geralt made sure his tone was one of absolute sincerity. “You couldn’t have prevented that first blow, and after that, I wouldn’t have been able to stop him. You would’ve fought and he would have caught you, too - or worse.” 

That took some of the shadow from the bard’s eyes, and he straightened a little, nodding. 

“So... what do you need me to do?” 

Geralt kept the instructions short and to the point, showing the bard how to place his own fingers at the healing break, making sure he understood how much force to apply. Jaskier listened with concern pinching his features, and took a deep breath when Geralt finished.

“Geralt…. You’re absolutely _certain_ it won’t heal right if I don’t do this?”

“Witcher healing can mend broken bones, but it can’t move them, and it’s already started healing in place.” Jaskier still looked doubtful so Geralt made sure he sounded both firm and encouraging and nodded. “I’m certain.” 

The bard nodded reluctantly, then set his jaw determinedly, and Geralt fixed his eyes on the patch of blue sky rimmed by broken boards overhead, bracing himself. To his credit, Jaskier did use a fair amount of force, and as the shifting bone sent fire lancing up his arm, Geralt couldn’t help but groan, eyes shut tightly against the pain.

“Ohh, gods! Sorry. Uh… sorry. But I think it’s, uh…”

He gave a short nod in answer. 

Jaskier painstakingly set the bone, a heartfelt wince stamped on his face. Geralt let out a slow, measured breath while the bard went to gather some flat bits of wood from the small heap by the fire. 

The bits of wood Jaskier brought looked as if they’d been broken from the barn itself somewhere, but they served well enough as splints, which the bard, with a little coaching, wrapped in place with smaller strips of cloth that bound his fingers to their unbroken fellows for added stability. When it was done, Geralt breathed in, slow and steady, and opened his eyes. Jaskier looked fairly haggard himself, but straightened under Geralt’s eye and said, “Right. So, that’s done. Let’s have a look at your leg.” 

Geralt leaned forward and found that with the bandages removed, the wound looked practically harmless compared to the bloody, infected mess it had been. The swelling had gone down significantly, and even the bruising around it had faded to mottled yellows and browns. Jaskier uttered a short, curious hum.

“That’s… amazing. It looks like you’re back to healing at your usual unbelievable speed again, thank goodness.” 

Geralt inclined his head in agreement, eyebrows raised in surprise. The bard had done well. He was already gathering the old set of bandages aside for cleaning, and arranging a fresh set to replace them with a practiced speed that told Geralt this had been done regularly for some time. In fact, the wound looked too well healed to be simply the work of careful cleaning. A hazy memory came to mind of deep, burning pain in his leg, the sound of his own groans overlaid with more desperate apologies and a warm, steadying hand on his wrist.

“The potions?” Geralt queried, casting a light frown over at the bard. A guilty expression flickered across Jaskier’s face, like he’d been caught sneaking Roach a sugar cube again.

“I… may have poured some over the wound. Only because I’ve seen you do it before. Was that wrong?” 

“No, it’s… good,” he finished lamely, glancing at Jaskier’s fidgeting before leaning back and letting him clean and re-wrap the wound. So not only had Jaskier successfully brewed potions only a witcher had ever made before, he’d also paid enough attention to Geralt’s own healing practices to know how to use them to fight infection in deep wounds. It was… odd, and a little discomfiting to realize someone existed who knew a witcher well enough to make his potions and tend his wounds without being a witcher himself. It was strange and different, but not entirely unpleasant, Geralt decided, to know that if he ever was hurt beyond what his own strength and capabilities could handle, it would not necessarily mean his death. That was a thought that would take some time to get used to. 

From the moment those potions had been crushed under the blacksmith’s heel, Geralt had assumed that he would die in the coming few days. Even rescued, even tended, even lying in relative comfort, he would die. Allowing Jaskier to attempt the potion brewing had been more for the bard’s sake than his own. He’d been too exhausted to fight the hardened determination in the stubborn man’s eyes, and he’d figured it would, at best, give Jaskier a little more time to adjust to the idea of his passing.

Instead, the bard had ridden to and from town in record time, fought off at least one assailant with minimal injury to himself, successfully brewed a witcher’s healing draughts and administered them, all before Geralt’s condition had deteriorated beyond the point of recovery. It was… singularly astounding, and Geralt found he hadn’t the words to express this. Jaskier had settled back, the wrapping tight and clean and tied off with deft movements, but something thoughtful lingered in his eyes, in the shadowed frown on his brow, and after a quick glance up at Geralt, the bard set aside his brooding to reach into one pocket.

“I’ve, um… been holding onto this for you.” 

Shining silver, polished bright, hung from his hesitant hand and Geralt stared, taking it slowly and letting the chain spill over his freshly-splinted fingers. Before he could ask, Jaskier continued quietly, “I took it back from Tomas and… I was-” Another glance, and a breath that wavered almost imperceptibly. “I was going to take it to Kaer Morhen, like you asked, _but_ to my profound and inexpressible relief, it looks like I won’t have to make that particular trip anytime soon.” He paused, smile dimming slightly as he said, “You… are definitely gonna be all right now… right?” 

Geralt just gazed at him, taking in the shadows under his eyes, the tousled hair, the glimmer of fear that spoke of sleepless nights and constant worry. How could the inability to walk a mile without complaint or to watch game be skinned and prepared without a theatrical gag have so completely hidden the truth? Not only had Jaskier sought him out, but he had gone to lengths that no human had ever attempted before to ensure Geralt’s survival. Then, as if that hadn’t been trial enough, Jaskier had gone toe-to-toe with the witcher’s brutish captor and come out of it with little more than a bruise and the silver chain and medallion Geralt held now, taken right off the smith’s ugly head, Geralt was sure.

His bard had been brave, capable, _violent_ even, and Geralt found he was rather disappointed to have missed the look on Tomas’s face when he’d been soundly trounced by an unexpectedly feral bard. 

Jasker was watching him with growing concern, and Geralt found he could only answer with a nod. Yes, he would be all right, and he owed that entirely to Jaskier, whose whole body seemed to slump at once, relief gusting from him. 

“Good! That’s…” He ducked his head, scrubbing lightly at the bruise on his forehead, but his chuckle ended in a sniffle. “That’s good. Um…” Another quick breath that sounded distinctly tearful. “Gods. Sorry, it’s just…” The bard left his head resting on his hand, face hidden as his shoulders shook very quietly.

Geralt sat awkwardly for a moment, unsure. But as the soft gasps continued, far too reminiscent of those broken sounds that had followed him into sleep that first night in the barn, Geralt found he had to do _some_ thing. 

An embrace had always looked more like an attack than a comfort to Geralt, when performed between two able-bodied men, but then most, if not all, of the physical interaction he’d had with other men had been violent and bloody. The few exceptions were the other witchers, who would clap each other on the back, give a shove or a punch to show some meager amount of affection, born more out of their shared traumas than any real familial sentiment. This felt different, and while Geralt himself might be more comfortable with a clap on the back, he doubted it would do much more right now than knock the wind out of Jaskier, and that didn’t sound quite as helpful as Geralt hoped to be. 

Instead, he reached out hesitantly. One arm around the back, the other at the head, pulling them to your shoulder. That was how it was done, right? That was how Jaskier had held him when he’d needed it most, and it had been a world of comfort he’d never known. Now, with the bard so clearly exhausted, emotionally and physically spent, Geralt wanted to express that same safety and comfort to his friend, as well as a wealth of gratitude he had no words to impart. So he went through the motions, hoping the stiff splints around his fingers wouldn’t ruin the effect.

At first, all Jaskier offered was a confused hum, muffled against the witcher’s shoulder, but it didn’t take long before the bewilderment gave way and the bard’s hands came around to his back. Geralt counted that as a success, but now there was a damp patch soaking his shoulder, and Jaskier was trying but not yet fully able to stifle his tears. Geralt tried tightening his grip just a little, and felt the bard’s arms mirror the motion around his sore ribs.

Something in Geralt’s heart ached at that, at the hands clinging to the back of his shirt just like he’d longed to do at that post. Jaskier must be feeling something similar now, similar to that desperate need to hold the other close and not let the world or its cruelty separate them again. Geralt scanned the sun-gilt boards of the wall across the way, turning his head just a little in an attempt to replicate the comforting pressure he’d felt against his head, and he brought to mind all those little gifts Jaskier had given him over these past days, trying to channel that warmth from his heart to his arms. He didn’t know if he was successful. His arms had started to tremble, weak and weary still, and it didn’t seem like nearly enough. 

This was the part where people usually said something, Geralt suddenly realized….

Jaskier had been talking to him that dark night at the post, but for the life of him he couldn’t remember what had been said. In the days that had followed, the bard had given him several examples of how to soothe and calm another, but every time the witcher tried to form them, to say them, they felt unwieldy and sentimental to the point of embarrassment on his tongue, so he swallowed them back. Geralt found his mind utterly blank, gracing him with only an awkward “Um…” and that had definitely not been the thing to say, because Jaskier quickly let go and sat back. Geralt’s hand slid from the bard’s head to his shoulder, his other hovering uncertain to the side, the medallion still clutched in his fist. 

“Sorry,” Jaskier sniffed, wiping at his eyes and making a token effort to brush away the wetness that dotted the dark fabric at Geralt’s shoulder. “I’m sure the last thing you want right now is a silly bard turning on the waterworks over something as ridiculous as you _not_ dying…” 

“You’re not-“ Geralt broke off. He knew he had to say something. He couldn’t just leave it at ‘You’re not silly,’ and a simple ‘Thank you’ seemed far too little a thing, more suited to someone buying you a drink than them saving your stupid hide from a slow and painful death. Geralt clenched his jaw, mind working furiously as Jaskier dipped his head a little to catch his eye.

“I’m not… what?” 

His gaze lowered, Geralt caught the brilliant flash of silver in his own hand and gratitude welled up again in his chest, forcing words along with it. He met the bard’s curious gaze, the blue eyes still rimmed in red, and voiced the first words that came to him.

“You…” He took a breath and plowed on, “You are a blessing, Jaskier…. I owe you a debt I cannot hope to repay.” 

The bard’s initial response of open-mouthed shock was not exactly what Geralt had been aiming for, and he averted his gaze, a sting of embarrassment catching in his chest as his own words played over in his head, emotional and flowery and probably deserving of the disbelieving chuckle that escaped the bard’s lips. But before he could lower his hand from the other man’s shoulder, Jaskier was hugging him again, not with quite as much force as before, but just as genuinely, and Geralt figured he must’ve done something right when the bard’s smile was clearly audible where it pulled his words wider.

“That… is the kindest thing that you have ever said to me. _And_ ,” he went on, sitting back to raise a finger between them, “never again can you give me that ‘we’re not friends’ rubbish, because you’ve just demonstrated _that_ to be a complete and baseless lie. You’re a terrible liar anyway, but _now…_ ” His bright smile bordered on triumphant, but it was a good sight better than the worry that had hung so heavily on him for so long.

Geralt sat back, unable to completely hide his own smile as Jaskier brushed his palm across his eyes again, then began cleaning up the unused bandages and packing the others away to be washed later. Geralt was in dire need of a wash himself, but he set that thought aside for now, slipping the chain over his head and feeling finally whole again as the medallion’s weight settled on his chest. 

While Jaskier dug out the supplies for breakfast, Geralt watched him, aware that his own expression had softened to one of outright fondness. He didn’t bother to hide it for now, not when the best story the bard could ever tell was hanging against his chest, the wolf’s teeth bared in a snarl he could almost picture on the bard’s face with the smith staring dumbfounded in return. 

“What happened?” he asked, answering the bard’s curious gaze with a glance down at the medallion. 

“Would you believe they actually thought they were rescuing _me_?” the younger man replied, eyebrows and voice arching in affront. He gathered them both a breakfast of leftover rabbit stew before launching into a retelling of the entire battle from start to finish with far more description than was really needed. Geralt suspected there had been a bit of embellishment regarding the dialogue between him and Tomas, as it sounded more like some melodramatic play than the actual bare-knuckle brawl it had to have been. The blow-by-blow sounded more realistic and Geralt felt a swell of pride at the news that Jaskier had not only taken up the sword as suggested, but he’d actually gotten a good hit in that would likely limit the blacksmith’s mobility for weeks, making it all the more unlikely he would come after them again. 

“I must have got hold of his hammer at some point... um... And Roach quite viciously took a piece out of the other fellow, so by the time I’d made it back in here, they all heartily regretted butting in where they weren't wanted.” Jaskier finished with satisfaction, his gaze returning from the middle distance where he’d been stepping through the fray in his memory. “I think the two fellows he brought with him would have listened to me, actually, if Tomas hadn’t been bullying them on with that monumental grudge of his, insisting I was in thrall to you.” 

His smile twisted scornfully and Geralt breathed a laugh, shaking his head. 

“I’d have liked to see the look on his face.”

“The sight remains an infinitely-gratifying balm to my soul,” Jaskier agreed, laying hand to heart. “If I thought I could do the whole thing justice, I might even commit it to verse at some point. Take center stage myself, as it were.” 

Geralt finished his food, a little disappointed that he was already full after only a small helping. “You were far more the hero of this one,” he admitted. “Though,” he added with a slight wince. “This is one tale I’d rather not have spread too far….” He could just picture the look on Vesemir’s face. If the other witchers ever got wind of how the great White Wolf was rescued like a damsel in distress by a reckless fool of a bard, he’d never live it down. 

Jaskier turned a look of exaggerated concern on him.

“Was that yet another compliment from you, Geralt? Are you still feeling all right?” The bard leaned to press the back of his hand to Geralt’s brow and the witcher fixed him with an annoyed frown. The invading arm tactfully retreated and Jaskier returned to his food.

“Were you listening?” Geralt said, after a few moments.

“What? When?”

Geralt sighed through his nose and canted his head to one side.

“About the song…” he drawled, waiting for his warning frown to sink his meaning in past the bard’s fleeting attention span. Jaskier set his bowl aside with a long-suffering sigh saying, “I should have known the compliments wouldn’t last long. When have I ever set hand to lute or uttered a single note that did not cover you in glory and praise? Hmm?” Blue eyes searched his face keenly, and Geralt knew he’d been found out when Jaskier’s tone shifted, dropping to a more serious timbre.

“You do know that you’ve got nothing to be ashamed of, right? Just because you happened to run into one of the worst examples of humanity the Continent has to offer, and you weren’t able to fight off _literally_ the _entire_ village….” He shook his head, quick and impatient, dismissing Geralt’s embarrassment as unwarranted. “That makes _them_ the monsters, and they’re just lucky you’re too honorable to go back there and give them good reason to be afraid of you.” 

Geralt nodded in agreement, trading his own dish for a water flask while he quipped dryly, “They’re certainly the monsters, but I was the fool who thought it a good idea to stop in for a drink.” The fresh spring water was better than the finest ale on the continent. Setting the flask aside, Geralt leaned back and shut his eyes for a moment to savor the feeling of not being thirsty.

“And there’s the true measure of their intelligence, if they choose to assault one of the five paying customers they get every year,” Jaskier huffed. The witcher hummed in response, a small smile playing at his lips as he added, “Not a paying customer. Tomas bought the drink.” He quirked an eyebrow and glanced at Jaskier. “Although it does say something about the folk in these parts that when they are presented with the heads of beasts who’ve been killing their families for generations, they think it best to attack and rob the man in return.” 

And wasn’t that an embittering thought, Geralt mused, that all the coin he’d had with him was weighing the pockets of his attackers when it could have gone toward a much-needed bath in the next welcoming town over the border. But when he surfaced from his longing thoughts, Jaskier was smirking at him, looking strangely pleased with himself. 

“As it happens,” he said, “though I didn’t find your coin purse on the smith’s tables with everything else, I did take a fair bit of coin in with my performance that night, so between that and my parting gift from Novigrad…. Not sure how much you left home sweet home with, but I certainly have enough to get us both a proper bath and real beds for a night or two.”

The weary resignation in Geralt’s heart lifted at once and he suggested they leave the barn as soon as possible. Jaskier was reluctant to agree, pointing out all-too-accurately that Geralt couldn’t even cross the barn under his own power yet, but even the bard had felt the ever-present threat of their proximity to that mud hole of a town looming dark and dangerous over their shoulders. He soon caved to Geralt's logic, and agreed they ought to move far enough away that Tomas would no longer be a threat. Then, Jaskier insisted, they would stop and stay put until Geralt was well enough to sit up for more than an hour at a time. 

The next morning, Geralt rode in a pained slump while Jaskier led Roach at a slow, careful pace. By that evening, they’d bypassed the town Jaskier had stopped in for the herbs and went a mile or two further for safety’s sake. Finally, they settled in the forest a safe distance from the main road, and Geralt had gratefully fallen into an exhausted slumber the minute Jaskier had helped him down to the bedroll. 

The witcher had slept through much of the next day, waking for food and water and one more potion, but little else. He hadn’t thought the simple act of just riding a horse would wear him out so much, but then, he’d also been starved and without water for a full week. It would take time to build his strength back up. But he was restless, frustrated, still felt the urge to get up and move even if his body wasn’t really up to it. 

So it was that when Jaskier went to fetch more water the next morning, Geralt waited until the bard was out of earshot before calling Roach over to him with a low whistle. She’d often helped him get about with injuries in the past, and she was used to the slow steps and intermittent weight her master put on her as he tried to remind his stiff muscles how to move, but this time even she seemed leery of his plan, huffing and stomping a hoof before reluctantly obeying. 

He’d only intended to take a quick walk around the clearing and back to the bedroll. Just one short loop, and then more rest. But he’d only just got to his feet and taken his first wobbly step when he realized his splinted hands couldn’t hold onto Roach’s mane like he usually did. Another two steps and he felt like he’d just run a mile carrying a millstone, sweat gathering on his brow, his shoulders burning, and his chest aching with each rapid breath. One more half-step and a groan later, and Jaskier had rushed in at his elbow, panicking and nearly dropping the pot of water in his haste to take Geralt’s weight. 

Naturally, Roach took offence to this, and nearly caught the bard’s hand in her teeth before Geralt told her off and let Jaskier help him back to the bedroll. The bard’s concern was less about Roach being untrustworthy than it was the witcher pushing his injured body too far too soon, Geralt admitted to himself with chagrin. He must’ve looked a pretty pathetic figure as Jaskier arrived, knees quaking, arms slipping as Roach bent for another mouthful of grass. Had he fallen, he could easily have rebroken a rib. He just… wasn’t used to being able to take it slow. Whenever he’d been hurt in the past, he’d either had to be on his feet immediately to slay the beast that had injured him, or else he’d needed to get back to town before impatient locals sold Roach or his things, thinking him done for. 

Geralt spent the rest of that day under Jaskier’s watchful eye, trying to adjust to the idea that he was free to just sit… just sit and wait for his body to heal. He didn’t try to walk again for a while, restricting himself to standing propped against a tree and just practicing putting weight on his leg. When Jaskier came back from gathering firewood that evening and presented him with a sturdy stick of about the right height, Geralt accepted it without complaint. It might’ve been a blow to his pride, using a crutch to hobble around their camp, but Jaskier wasn’t quite his usual self, overlooking every opportunity to nettle the witcher when he would ordinarily have leapt at the chance to tease and taunt. No quips, no jibes, no lyrical comments rife with innuendo, the sort that the bard was adept at and enjoyed tossing his way just to bring out that particularly exasperated glower Geralt had set aside for just those occasions. 

No, rather, Jaskier still seemed tired, edgy, protective, and it was a strange and confusing role-reversal that Geralt pondered as they made their way down to the stream to wash off the worst of the past weeks’ grime. It wasn’t as good as a hot bath, but their combined stink had begun to offend even Roach, who had developed a habit of subtly standing upwind of them whenever they were near. 

Once Geralt had been escorted to the riverbank, he waved off his hovering shadow, suggesting Jaskier go check the snares he’d set. Geralt had managed bathing himself with a myriad of wounds over the years, and he wasn’t about to let the encroaching mother hen in the bard’s jumpy gestures take control. Of course, said ruffled hen returned shortly thereafter to stand on the bank, hands on his hips like a scolding mother.

“I know it’s been a while since your last bath, but, uh, little reminder: people do generally remove their clothing first, you know.”

Geralt just offered a low hum from his place seated in the shallows, cold water up to his chest, hands occupied scrubbing the last flecks of dried blood from his arms, then said, “I thought you’d rather I kill two birds with one stone than kill myself trying to get these off.” 

He’d considered undressing, but with his fingers still splinted and ribs aching, he’d be lucky to get his shirt off, let alone the trousers. Might as well wash them and himself in one go. A flicker of guilt pulled the bard’s eyes aside for a moment, his hands beginning their characteristic anxious movements, thumb and forefinger rubbing circles against each other as he spoke.

“Ah. Well… yes. Fair point.” For a moment or two the younger man was quiet, and Geralt moved on to his bloodstained sleeves, wondering if there was really any point in trying to get the deep, crusted marks out of the dark material. Then Jaskier took an uncertain step forward, boots hushed on the moss, adding, “So do you…” One hand fluttered in Geralt’s direction, like he was shooing away a stray dog that had drawn just a little too close for comfort. “Are you, um, asking if I’d…?”

The look Geralt gave him was a carefully-tailored expression of warning and exasperated humor, eyebrows raised and lips pressed thin as he raised a hand between them to halt Jaskier’s approach. He waited until the awkward fretting of the bard’s hands stilled, proof he was paying attention, before the witcher gave him a simple but firm, “No,” and relief crossed the younger man’s brow. Jaskier blew out a breath and plunked himself down on the bank beside the makeshift crutch. 

“Thank the gods for that. There are enough rumors circulating the Continent without adding fuel to _that_ fire.”

Geralt hoped the glare he fixed on the bard properly conveyed his feelings. He was gratified when Jaskier, momentarily distracted by a passing dragonfly, did a double-take and then frowned at him.

“Now, there’s no need to look like _that_ about it. You could do _worse_ , you know!”

Geralt snorted and turned back to scrubbing the fabric at his leg slightly cleaner. He might be able to salvage the material, but whatever washerwoman he or Jaskier passed it to for mending would hate them for it. The fabric was stiff with blood that was only just beginning to loosen. 

“Those rumors are a little ridiculous, though. The world seems to have forgotten the chivalrous bond between brothers-in-arms,” the bard mused pensively, bootheels crossed and swaying comfortably in Geralt’s peripheral vision.

Geralt sent him a sympathetically doubtful look over his shoulder. The younger man only stared back archly and repeated, “Yes, that’s right. Brothers. In. Arms. I have swung a sword more than once, for your information. And in your defense, in fact, so you can wipe that look off your face right now, witcher.” 

Geralt chuckled and accepted Jaskier’s helping hand to haul himself upright and retrieve the crutch. The bard was right, though. He had ‘borne arms’ so to speak, not just against Tomas, but all the times before that when he’d foolishly lashed out at drunks or angry villagers, returning the insults and stones they’d thrown with his own. That was another phrase to mull over, he thought: ‘brothers in arms.’

They picked their way over the needles and nettles and crossed the few steps back to their camp, where Geralt rested in a patch of sunlight while Jaskier took his turn to get clean. They moved on the next morning and at their campsite Geralt tried to remember to use the crutch, he really did, but sometimes Roach was a better support. After all, she could step forward to catch him when he stupidly attempted to walk across the clearing to meet her rather than calling her to him, nearly earning himself a mouthful of leaves and dirt for his troubles. 

After a day or two of cautious practice and healing rest, Geralt had finally regained near-full mobility, even if that mobility was hampered by a heavy limp and he found himself out of breath from something as simple as saddling his horse. Jaskier’s incessant hovering didn’t help either, but every time Geralt found himself growing annoyed by the bard’s nonstop chatter and scolding, he’d feel the thump of weighted silver against his chest as he moved or catch sight of his own tightly-splinted fingers and settle again into thoughtful silence. 

They were officially out of potions once more, and it would be nigh impossible to get the supplies this far north with a witcher riding tall and silent in the bard’s wake, even with his white hair almost dark grey with nearly two weeks worth of dirt, blood, and sweat. A stream could only work out so much dirt, and without the aid of soap, they both still looked a little worse for wear.

They set off as soon as Jaskier was convinced that his charge was well enough to travel, though the bard did insist on being told the minute Geralt grew tired or his condition changed in the slightest, an arrangement that Geralt reluctantly agreed to. And he found that frequent stops did help the fire in his leg and chest to not become quite so sharp. His hands were a difficulty he hadn’t anticipated. It was one thing to sling his arm over a horse’s back or loosely tuck a stick under one arm, but another thing entirely to curl his fingers around the reins, especially with the splints still hampering his movements. He did his best to ignore the ache, though, ready to put some proper distance between them and the grim suspicion of northern towns at last. 

They kept a steady pace, Geralt finding himself just as eager to reach civilization as Jaskier was, for once. Two nights in the brush were all it took to get them across the border and through the gates of the nearest town. Jaskier had gone ahead, feeling out the town’s opinions on witchers before he returned and led the way, chattering excitedly about how eager the innkeeper had been to host them. Apparently they’d finally reached a place where the northern chill had not completely warded off the spread of Jaskier’s influence. Geralt was able to walk with only a slight limp, maintaining an air of impassivity as Jaskier negotiated them a room and meal and explained away their disheveled appearance as that of many weeks’ travel. The innkeeper looked doubtful, and Geralt couldn’t blame him. Even spending a month in the wild didn’t usually involve gaping tears in one’s shirt or trousers, though he tried to cover both with the edge of his cloak. Geralt caught the bard eyeing his hands partway through his chatting, but the gloves he’d pulled on over the splints weren’t horribly uncomfortable, and he preferred the townsfolk not to know he was currently unable to wield either of the blades he carried. 

By nightfall every minute of aching, exhausting travel was rewarded as Geralt was neck deep in blissfully hot water, steam filling the room with a heady moisture that seeped into his sore muscles like a massage. A dull thump at the door and the subsequent curse made him smirk. Jaskier’s offended voice came hollowly through the wooden panel.

“Geralt? Did you- Did you _bar_ this door?” Industrious rattling followed, demonstrating the necessity of having done exactly that. “You’d better not have taken those splints off, or….”

Geralt scrubbed soap into his hair, bare fingers hurting, but not overly so. 

“I mean it, Geralt! I swear, if you undo all my hard work just because you were too stubborn to let me help you… Let me _in_ , Geralt!”

He didn’t. Not until he was clean and dressed in warm, dry clothes and the muttering on the other side of the door had fallen into sullen silence. Only then did he unbar the oak panel, opening it to see Jaskier shoot a glare up at him from where he was seated with his back against the door, arms crossed.

“Pleased with yourself?” The bard stood, dusted himself off, ignored Geralt’s self-satisfied hum, and followed the witcher down the hall to their room. Once inside, Jaskier said, “Now sit down - I’m going to mother you, and I’ll hear no complaints over it.” 

He let Jaskier rewrap his fingers and replace the splints with only a little grumbling, too happy to finally be free of the muck and grime of that foul village to really care that he could technically have handled the bandaging on his own, or that his fingers really didn’t need the splints anymore. He just let the bard fuss over him, order him to eat, and then steer him to bed despite there being no complaint whatsoever on Geralt’s side. He was getting stronger every day, and before long he’d be able to chuck Jaskier in the river again if his fretting got out of hand.

To be fair, though, the whole ordeal had to have been nearly as horrible for Jaskier as it had for the witcher himself. The bard hadn’t endured the physical damage, but the memory of the broken sobs breathed over his head in the dark still clung to Geralt’s heart, and those words... _I am really, **really** gonna miss you, Geralt._ Those few words whispered in his ear had surprised him, had sent a frisson of pain through his heart that had nothing to do with the damage his body had endured. At the time Geralt had tried to answer in kind, tried to tell his friend he, too, would be missed, _had_ been missed for seven nightmarish days and nights and a whole winter’s span of months before that. But he’d been too weak, hardly able to draw breath, let alone form words. 

Geralt had held onto consciousness as long as he’d been able, not wanting to leave so soon. 

But then a kiss had been pressed to his head and the hushed voice had whispered it was okay… that he was ready. Geralt hadn’t been ready, but exhaustion had won out over his will before he could do more than wish he’d had more time. 

And something else was right at the edge of his understanding now, just out of reach. Something that made the small room seem… different. It was new and good but he couldn’t quite put his finger on just what had changed. 

Jaskier tied off the bandage at his leg and Geralt winced slightly, pulled from his thoughts by the sting and ache of his wound.

“Sorry, sorry. I’m done.”

Geralt sat up gingerly with a frown. The words had fallen from Jaskier’s lips like they were as natural as breathing, and the sound of them had made that new, strange feeling in Geralt’s chest waver. 

“Why?”

“What?” The confusion in the bard’s tone was genuine and only made Geralt’s frown deepen as he shifted to sit on the edge of the bed.

“You keep apologizing. Why?” 

Jaskier turned back to him, old bandages still in hand, and met Geralt’s perplexed frown with one of his own. 

“Um… because I am? Sorry, that is?”

“What for?” Geralt asked. He knew apologies could be both sympathetic and remorseful. That people would apologize to one another for illness or misfortune they had no part in inflicting as well as expressing their regret for actions that were of their doing. Both were often equally as meaningless. People would think that a quick and simple, “I’m sorry” meant they could go on with their lives guilt-free. Others believed that those same words expressed to a grieving mother would provide some level of comfort to her in the midst of her mourning. In Geralt’s experience, apologies were empty promises, masks of compassion or repentance donned to rid the wearer of some level of pity or guilt. But the apologies Jaskier had showered him with didn’t suit either of these. Jaskier was a man ruled by emotion, enamored with words. Geralt couldn’t picture the bard opening his mouth to speak without his heart being right behind his tongue, riding words of elaborate fancy or heated temper. So why the repetition of these words Geralt knew as self-serving shields?

“Uh… just at the minute?” Jaskier nodded at Geralt’s leg. “I’m sorry I hurt you when I finished with your leg just now.” 

The bard seemed sincere, serious, honest, but –

“That covers the one. What about the rest?” 

Jaskier blinked and his gaze moved to the wall over Geralt’s head, one hand rubbing at his neck.

“Well… we’ve had a bit to be sorry about over the past fortnight, haven’t we?” The small chuckle didn’t sound half as lighthearted as it should have and Geralt only watched him, waiting as the bard glanced back at him. “I mean…” A small sigh, uncomfortable, self-conscious. “I’m sorry you’re still hurting at all - although you are very nearly back to your invulnerable self, thankfully. I’m, um… I’m sorry you ever got waylaid in that pigsty of a village to begin with…” Jaskier’s hands began to fiddle with the bandages he still held and he finished with a small shrug, not meeting Geralt’s eye. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there sooner. ” 

That was a simple enough answer. But there was no need for apologies. Jaskier apologized as if every second after the bard’s arrival at that muddy post hadn’t been a gift, hadn’t been so, so much better than the awful place the witcher’s mind and body had sunk to. One apology Geralt could understand - that much made sense. But Jaskier was apologizing as if the hurt he’d inflicted on the witcher in the course of his healing was compounding the damage done by Tomas. Geralt supposed the bard just hadn’t stopped to think that if he hadn’t come, that even if Geralt had managed to get free, then there would have been pain without potions, bleeding without bandages, cold with no cloak to cover him.

But this was a season for revelations it seemed, for meaning found in the meaningless, substance in the emptiness, new purpose in words Geralt had thrown aside long ago. Because Jaskier’s apologies were neither empty nor concealing. They were the true use of the word, when ‘sorry’ meant ‘sorrow’; just like the comforting phrases in the barn, where ‘I’m here’ from Jaskier meant ‘You’re safe,’ ‘I’m sorry’ meant ‘I am sorrowful.’ It was an expression of empathy, not sympathy, a joining in suffering rather than an observation of it. 

And Geralt realized then what the strange feeling in the room was… another thing he’d never thought to find beyond Kaer Morhen’s stony halls. 

This was home. 

This was family. 

Now that he’d identified it, Geralt could see that he’d realized it a while back. That it had been in those gentle moments, when whispered words and quiet comforts had been gifted to him every time he woke and Jaskier had been there, every time. It was then that he’d realized the truth. That Jaskier was more than he’d thought, not just a friend but a brother, family Geralt had never truly had beyond the militant closeness of the witchers. And that realization spread a soft smile across his lips as he caught the bard’s eye again.

“You saved my life, Jaskier,” he said sincerely, adding with a hint of gruff humor, “Stop apologizing.” 

The smile and chuckle he received in return was far more genuine than before.

“Yeahhh, I suppose that’s fair.” The glance Jaskier tossed him was both smug and ever so slightly sheepish. Then he moved to set the bandages aside, talking over his shoulder to the seated witcher. “And in return for my heroic efforts, _you_ are going to lie down and have a proper night’s rest in an actual bed.” 

The bard turned and watched him, hands on his hips until Geralt huffed a short laugh and complied. The feeling in his chest had settled to bewildered contentment and Geralt felt both lost and found all at once. Now that they had been graced with more time, something greater would have to be done, something to show Jaskier he was valued, that Geralt’s silence and reluctance to follow Jaskier’s lead weren’t meant to downplay the bard’s capabilities. On the contrary, he’d proven himself worthy of far more trust than Geralt would ever have imagined on their first meeting. 

Something would need to be done, but for now, he just lay back on the bed, reveling in the softness of it and listening as Jaskier padded around the room, gathering their things to be washed before settling on the neighboring bed. A tentative melody rippled across the room and Geralt lay still, feigning sleep as the quiet notes grew in confidence when no objection was found. He lay and listened, finding beneath the starlight-soft strumming the familiar cadence that he’d missed: two heartbeats, Lark keeping pace with the strings, no longer frantic but calm and sure, and in his own chest, the Wolf settling in grateful sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We have one epilogue to go! Thank you all SO MUCH for your wonderful reviews! They are seriously the highlight of my day! I reread them often and refresh the page, like, every couple minutes to check for new ones. <3


	11. Chapter 11

When Jaskier rubbed sleep from his eyes on the third morning to see Geralt already up, roaming their room, collecting his few belongings and packing them away, the bard hid his smile behind a luxurious yawn. Geralt never willingly spent more than a few days in one place, and to see him moving easily and clearly ready to get back on the road was a welcome sight. 

The pause had given them both a much-needed chance to rest up, and to get three hearty meals a day into the recovering witcher. Jaskier had spent one entire day simply napping and composing, while Geralt had given his armor a meticulous going-over, cleaning and repairing the leather pieces with careful hands. His witcher healing was back in full force, it seemed; the makeshift splints had vanished the night before and had never reappeared, despite Jaskier’s nettling. In the end, Jaskier had fixed his gaze on the innocent-eyed witcher using his splintless hands to mend a tear in his spare shirt, and said, “Fine, then - stitch away! But don’t expect sympathy when you end up with fingers that don’t point where you want them to!” Geralt had only raised amused eyes to the heavens in mock gratitude. 

And just a few hours later, they were tramping down the dusty road under full sun, cloaks relegated to their packs, as if the past two weeks had never happened. Well, almost, Jaskier mused, spinning an early honeysuckle blossom between thumb and forefinger as he watched Geralt methodically flexing his healing hands as he rode. Like playing scales, he curled one finger at a time into a fist, then stretched them absently, cat-like. Apart from that extra care with his hands, the slight limp in the witcher’s stride at the end of the day and a grimace if he twisted his torso too quickly were the only lingering physical signs that they had not simply met in the streets of Gelibol as they’d planned all along. 

As for other signs… Geralt had made a silent but noticeable point of wearing his armor anytime they had passed through a town or stayed in one of the inns. The witcher’s usual impassive demeanor had sharpened ever-so-slightly, eyes flashing quick to the barkeep’s sudden gesture, and he had barely stayed in the common room long enough to finish his drink, leaving Jaskier to his performance. Geralt didn’t seem apprehensive so much as cautious, perhaps wary of being caught in a situation that might call upon his still-returning strength. Not that Jaskier could blame the other man in the slightest; he himself had seen a dark beard amongst his audience, seen narrow eyes and a quick grin, and nearly snapped a lute string before he’d seen the man was far younger and closer-shaven than Tomas.

What they both needed was a change of scene, Jaskier decided, as he studied the witcher’s broad shoulders ahead of him, no longer curved in weariness, but not yet firm with their usual confidence. While there was a certain comfort in returning to their rambling search for monsters or contracts, surely they could do better than falling back into the familiar, as if the harrowing days so close behind them had never happened. 

For that would almost certainly be what happened, if Geralt were left to himself on the matter. The witcher had always displayed that primal instinct to bury the shock and impact of whatever had happened to him and walk on, like a wolf that couldn’t afford to show weakness to its foes. But Geralt was far more than a wolf, and deserved so much more than the life of one, deserved the chance to step away from everything and just _enjoy_ his life now and again…. Jaskier chuckled softly to himself, eyeing the back of the other man’s head, already imagining the scoff and wry growl of, “Witchers don’t have the luxury of ‘enjoying’ life. We’re here to give others the chance to.” 

Absolute rubbish. _Everybody_ deserved to enjoy life, to go somewhere that made their heart leap for joy or sink into quiet peace. But if he suggested a holiday to Geralt in so many words, the witcher would dismiss the notion in a heartbeat. A more subtle hand was necessary here, if he could manage it…. A little prodding, perhaps, to turn the witcher’s mind to the question of where he _wanted_ to go, as opposed to letting contracts and creatures dictate their path for them. A quick few steps brought Jaskier level with Roach’s head. She eagerly accepted his offering, the flower disappearing beneath her soft muzzle in an instant. 

“So,” he said breezily, looking up at Geralt. “Where are we off to, then?” The witcher cast a slightly annoyed glance down at him as Roach paused, nuzzling Jaskier’s jacket in search of more treats. 

“South.” 

The ready answer suited Jaskier well enough for the moment; south was the bard’s preference as well, that compass point being diametrically opposed to the nightmare behind them. He fell back a step and swung his lute around into his hands, picking out a gentle, ambling melody that wove in and out of Roach’s easy stride. 

Over the next days, they traveled from the rugged northern terrain into the plains and forests of the central Continent, finally leaving the chill behind them when they joined a larger road that was better trafficked. The merchants and farmers who passed them on occasion eyed them warily, but one young man driving a cart of produce unexpectedly offered them both a nod and Geralt a tug of his forelock. Geralt blinked, then nodded back solemnly, and Jaskier was quietly gratified to see the witcher’s posture both straighten and settle as they continued on.

He returned from a foray out to find firewood that afternoon to see Geralt stepping carefully through a drill with his sword in their camp’s little clearing, focusing on the dextrous twirl and fluidity of motion that characterized his unique fighting style. The witcher moved slowly through a twisting parry over one shoulder, the tightness around his eyes and jaw betraying the ache of his still-healing injuries. He finished the set of movements by returning to guard, then turned to raise an eyebrow at Jaskier, who thought he’d approached fairly quietly even with his arms full of wood. Sheathing the sword with amusement in his eyes, Geralt strode over to join the bard in preparing their dinner.

“We need honeysuckle,” the witcher announced over the crackling fire later, and Jaskier looked up from his lyric-writing to see a sprig of something held out for his observation. “The leaves, not the flowers you keep sneaking to Roach. Perhaps you can make yourself useful tomorrow and gather some as we go.” 

“Do my musical improvisations not strike you as useful, then?” he quipped, but caught the bit of branch tossed his way, idly angling the leaves so the firelight glossed miniature sunsets over their smooth surfaces. “We should be passing through the next town tomorrow anyway. We could find an herbalist there, I’m sure. Even stay the night, if you feel like it. I’ve still got plenty of coin for it.” Not nearly as much as when he’d left Novigrad, but still more than enough to carry them along for another few weeks. 

A low “hmm” was the only reply, and the bard squinted over at Geralt, picking up on a dissatisfied undercurrent that didn’t sound like the witcher’s usual disdain for a loud tavern full of enthusiastic listeners. Maybe it was just the play of the fire on the other man’s face, but Jaskier thought he saw something like chagrin in the thoughtful gaze, and suddenly realized the leaves he’d been handed were meant as an invitation, not a chore. 

Before Geralt could regret and withdraw the suggestion, Jaskier shrugged and said aloud, “I suppose harvesting your own herbs does have a sort of rustic self-sufficiency about it… Plus you won’t have unscrupulous herbalists giving you celery disguised as celandine.” His off-hand tone seemed to do the trick, as the discomfort in the witcher’s expression eased, and Geralt grumbled around the hints of a smile, “Probably end up with celery anyway. Just how much foraging have you done in the past?”

“I’ve… foraged.” Years ago, because he’d been out of money, between towns, and very hungry. All it had earned him was a handful of blackberries and a healthy respect for briars and nettles, but the witcher didn’t need to know that. Geralt responded with a “hmm”, and Jaskier thought that would be the end of it.

Instead, the conversation resumed as soon as Roach had been saddled the next morning, while Jaskier was still yawning. At first, juggling all the names and descriptions of the half-dozen plants he’d been tasked with finding, let alone actually _finding_ said plants while also keeping pace with Geralt, seemed an impossible task. Jaskier would leave the path to snap off a few slender branches of honeysuckle, then spot the bright blush of verbena among the long grass, gather a handful before seeing the leaves were wrong for verbena, toss them aside, tramp back to the road, and find the witcher and his mount waiting patiently a little way down the path. 

He repeated this process several times throughout the day, to Geralt’s amusement, but with not only Jaskier’s own pride at stake, but also Geralt’s newly-expanded trust in him, the bard kept at it. As he gradually grew faster at spotting each plant, Geralt began to add a sentence or two with each bundle of herbs Jaskier delivered to him: arenaria is best when the flowers are in full bloom, while verbena would be most potent in the unopened buds; they would need the full fruit in the case of berbercane, but only the tiny white petals were necessary from the sprigs of white myrtle. 

Jaskier committed each piece of knowledge to memory with the same energy he’d put into learning the most intricate details of lute technique, and soon, Roach’s saddlebags were lined with neat bunches of herbs drying in the sun. By the time the next town came into view, Jaskier was pleased to see something settled and sure in the set of Geralt’s shoulders and brow. As a bonus, thanks to his own persistence, they were also now well-stocked on nearly all the herbs Geralt needed for his potions without having spent a single coin on it.

Some things, like rosin for his lute and fresh vials for potions, did not spring so cooperatively from the earth, however, and Jaskier split off when they reached town to reprovision them. He returned to the wide square to find Geralt waiting for him, a weathered sheet of paper in one gloved hand. As the bard approached, Geralt raised the paper and said, “Drowners,” with a firmness that brooked no argument over sore ribs or stiff fingers.

“Ooh, fun. A late night in store for us, then,” was all Jaskier said, his tone light and cheerful as he eyed the modest sum listed at the bottom of the paper, then stowed their purchases in the saddlebags. If Geralt felt ready to take on some pest control, that was good, he assured himself. The odd protective role Jaskier had adopted of late had begun to wear on the witcher’s nerves, he suspected, which was also good. It meant Geralt was practically back to his old self, grumping and “hmm”ing at whatever life sent his way. Now if only Jaskier could figure out how to shoo away the mother hen that had taken up residence in his ribcage, ruffling its feathers every time Geralt so much as winced.... 

They took the contract, confirming the fee with the mayor before heading out to the lake in question. Drowners prefered to come out after dark, so Geralt spent the rest of the morning brewing a few potions with the herbs Jaskier had gathered, and as the sun began to set, Jaskier settled himself on a low branch at about eye level, his back comfortably against the trunk, and turned to the next blank page in his notebook, pencil at the ready. Drowners weren’t anywhere near the most dangerous or interesting monster Geralt had faced - almost run-of-the-mill at this point. Grabby, ugly things, and more a nuisance than a threat, unless you liked walking alone by the water’s edge in the dark. But Jaskier hadn’t had the pleasure of watching the witcher on a hunt for months, even one as routine as this. If the perfect phrase for a particularly magnificent bout of swordsmanship sprang to mind, Jaskier would be ready for it. Plus, he admitted to himself, with only the fireflies to see him, watching Geralt successfully smite something would be the best cure for that stubborn prickle of protectiveness he’d developed of late.

Geralt was seated a few yards away on the lake’s grassy bank, the carcass of a deer laid out as bait across the pebbly shore between him and the water’s edge. The witcher had the silver sword held casually across his lap, his back to Jaskier, silhouetted against the sunset-soaked water, as if he were simply savoring the view before turning in for the night. The bard had absolutely no reason to doubt Geralt’s ability to handle such a basic contract. He could clear out a whole pack of drowners without even getting winded; Jaskier had witnessed this himself countless times. Along the margin of the page, he began writing out words to rhyme with “drowner”, focusing his attention on the exercise rather than his unreasonable worries. 

As the light dimmed and twilight slid into dusk, Geralt stood and moved to crouch behind a tree. The water rippled subtly against the breeze and Geralt waited until the four ungainly shapes that emerged from the water were huddled around the carcass, squabbling in grunts and hisses over the choicest parts. Jaskier held his breath while the witcher waited, a dark shape in the shadows, until it was clear there were no other creatures lurking beneath the water weeds. Then Geralt circled round in long-ground-eating strides to cut off their escape, dispatching all four in a series of swift, smooth strokes. The bodies fell with a succession of sandy thumps while their screeches still hung in the air, and the whole fight was over before Jaskier had even set pencil to paper.

While that was precisely what past experience had told him would happen, he couldn’t help feeling a little miffed at the waste of a perfect perch. The next hunt would probably see him chest-deep in swamp or crouched in brambles just to catch a glimpse of the witcher’s feats. With a parting sigh, he slid off the branch to solid ground and headed to join Geralt on the shore. For a split-second, alarm flickered in his mind as Geralt winced, one gloved hand landing against his own chest, but Jaskier’s immediate concerns about re-broken ribs were quelled when Geralt finished wiping slime off his hand across his armor and hefted his sword again with no sign of discomfort. The sight pulled something back into alignment in Jaskier’s heart, something that filled his lungs with a contented breath and spread a smile onto the bard’s face. 

“I needn’t have bothered seeking refuge in the shadows,” Jaskier said, planting his feet in the pebbles on the other side of the stack of drowners. “I could have been standing within arm’s reach and they wouldn’t have had time to do more than blink at me.” Jaskier tilted his head to squint at the ghoulish face of the nearest creature, much less human-looking when seen up close like this.

Geralt ignored him, severing the heads before shoving the bodies back to the water where the fish could finish the dirty work of cleaning up the corpses. 

“You know, I’ve never understood why people can’t be satisfied with your word that you’ve dispatched whatever monster they’re paying you for.” Dark slime slowly pooled under the heads, dribbling from the stumps of their necks, and Jaskier took a careful step uphill to protect his boots. “Nobody ever actually looks _happy_ when you walk up with a sack full of heads or tongues or… tentacles, or whatever. You’d think turning up splattered with the insides of said monster would be proof enough. I mean, what do they _do_ with them after we leave, anyway? Hmm - there’s a question: can you _eat_ , say, kikimora? Is that a thing people do? A delicacy in some odd little corner of the continent?” Geralt, predictably, didn’t grace his musing with an answer, too busy wiping his sword clean and sheathing it. “Either way, I suppose there is a certain satisfaction in having your proof literally staring them in the face. Is that why you… Um, Geralt? What are you doing….?”

Geralt had knelt with his hunting knife now in hand, the blade’s tip hovering over one disembodied head, the thing’s pale eyes bulging as if in shock at the prospect of further desecration. Without acknowledging Jaskier’s question, he simply jammed the knife deep into the creature’s skull with a crunch, cracking it open with a few efficient movements.

Despite having developed something of a tolerance for such sights and sounds in the company of a witcher, Jaskier couldn’t restrain a heartfelt exclamation of disgust at the sight of Geralt scooping out the grey jellied brain into a sack, like shelling a large, slimy walnut. 

“In the name of all things decent, Geralt, _why…_.?”

“Have you ever known local shops to carry drowner brain?” Geralt intoned innocently, moving on to the next severed head. “You don’t have to watch.” Then like the thought had only just come to him, the golden eyes flicked with apprehension from Jaskier to the open skull near the bard’s boots and the words “Don’t touch,” were added with wary caution, as if Jaskier was really likely to start pawing around inside the thing’s empty skull cavity.

“No fear of that,” he retorted, a shudder twitching through his shoulders. How Geralt could do that without batting an eye…. The witcher in question seemed more amused than anything, a sneaky quirk to the corner of his mouth he probably thought Jaskier couldn’t see. He kept at his gruesome task, while Jaskier pointedly studied the starlight on the water, until heads and brains were in their respective sacks and it was time to head back to town. The mayor’s expression of shock was flavored with horror at the state of the heads that were deposited in front of him and as they stretched out on their bedrolls back at camp, Jaskier made a mental note to suggest Geralt start choosing less visibly-harvested body parts for evidence in future. 

Only a few hours later, Jaskier was robbed of a dream of the Countess de Stael’s appreciative hospitality by the sick pat of mucous-coated brain landing close enough to waft the smell of death into his face. Geralt had the gall to look offended at Jaskier’s windmilling scramble to the other side of their small encampment, as if he hadn’t been the one tossing viscera around at the crack of dawn. 

“Did I _do_ something to you?” the bard demanded, once the threat of dry-heaving mid-rant had passed. “Is this some childish attempt to get back at me for something?” Geralt studied him for a moment before shrugging and dumping the rest of the brains out onto the flat rock in the sun. 

“You snore.” 

It was too early for this. Jaskier tried to rub sleep from his eyes and think of a properly cutting response, but only succeeded in embedding tiredness deeper into his head. The best he could do, while trudging across to the saddlebags, was to snipe, “Well, if I do - which is not an admission of guilt, by the way - I’m sure it’s more melodious than your imitation of a rockslide I’m subjected to every other night.” The witcher’s lips pursed in annoyance and Jaskier smugly helped himself to an apple before sitting down near Roach, who snuffed interestedly at the treat. “Ah! Not for you, girl.” 

“They’ll need to stay in direct sunlight for at least ten hours. The sooner it’s started, the sooner it’ll be done.” Apparently Jaskier had been too subtle. Geralt clearly thought this monologue on properly sun-drying monster brains was welcome at this hour.

Geralt eyed him for a few moments, then left for the nearby stream, and Jaskier ate his apple in the morning sunshine under Roach’s watchful eye. Geralt’s armor and the silver sword were already shining like new on the grass by their things, suggesting Geralt had been up a good while before him. Even though they wouldn’t be traveling today, there would be no idle enjoyment of this lovely spring morning. The witcher was nothing if not efficient. 

Roach huffed down his collar, hot breath tickling, and Jaskier squirmed around to face her, saying, “Fine, fine!” She eagerly accepted the rest of his breakfast, crunching happily as he scritched her jaw. “Greedy this morning, aren’t we?” 

Geralt returned with clean hands and dripping gloves, eyebrow raised at the bard’s pampering of his horse, but Jaskier ignored the disapproval, having seen the witcher himself whispering sweet nothings to the mare as he brushed her down on many occasions. 

Geralt settled cross-legged on the ground by the stone-circled ashes of last night’s fire and started rummaging through the saddlebags, setting a small collection of familiar vials out by his side. 

“You’re not having one of those for breakfast, are you?”

The witcher chose not to dignify that with an answer and instead glanced meaningfully between Jaskier and the little line of jars and herbs in front of him. When Jaskier didn’t immediately react, a small flicker of self-doubt crossed Geralt’s face, and beat later, the bard’s mind caught up with Geralt’s wordless dialogue. An expectant-looking witcher, an array of mysterious containers in front of him, and freshly-harvested drowner brain glistening in the sun nearby…. Geralt was offering to share another helping of witcher knowledge, if Jaskier was open to it, and he’d have to be as brainless as last night’s drowners to turn that gift down.

“Ooh, is class back in session then?” he said quickly as he sat cross-legged facing Geralt, who gave him a look. “Not touching, see?” His display of empty, obedient hands seemed to do the trick of reassuring the other man he wasn’t about to start opening all the jars up immediately. He recognized one group of vials as the inky potions that had so narrowly saved Geralt’s life; alongside them were a few filled with what looked like watered-down milk. 

More intriguing were the two groupings of ingredients gathered near Geralt’s boots. He recognized the flowers, leaves, and fruits he’d spent their recent travels collecting, but could only guess at the nature of what looked like dust, marbles, and even blood in the other jars. 

“So which of us gets the dubious honor of, um, powdering the, eh, brains once they’re ready?”

“I’ll powder them. _You_ will sit upwind and try not to touch anything.” 

Geralt ignored his affronted look and flipped a knife into his hand from one boot, gesturing to the vials set off to one side against a log.

“Potions.” The knife glinted as it shifted to the two groups. “Ingredients.” 

“I had actually worked that out for myself, believe it or not. So what is that?” He pointed to a jar filled with what appeared to be several large greenish marbles, each with a strange black patch in its center. His hand had hardly ventured beyond his own crossed legs before Geralt had slapped it with the flat of the blade; Jaskier snatched his hand back to safety, rubbing away the sting as he glared back at Geralt. The witcher only flicked the knife upward to aim pointedly at Jaskier’s face with a warning look.

“Those…” Geralt inclined his head slightly to indicate the jar in question, his yellow gaze unwavering from Jaskier’s face. “… are endrega embryos.” 

“Ugh…” The bard took another look at the not-marbles. They were grotesque, but didn’t look particularly dangerous. “So were they about to bite me or something? Do they already have venomous fangs at that size? You can’t just go around slapping people with _knives_ , Geralt.”

The shadow of a smirk said Geralt had heard him, but rather than answer, he just held up the jar of already-powdered drowner brain, only half full now that the witcher had brewed several more healing potions. 

“This one you know will kill you. Painfully.” He waited for Jaskier’s tentative, “Yes…?” before he set the jar back with its fellows and glanced down at the gathered containers. “So…?” the witcher prompted.

Of course Geralt would make the whole thing a test. Why make something easy when you could make it torturous? But Jaskier bent forward, studying the containers, because Geralt opened up so rarely, especially about something as sacred as these mysterious elixirs, and the bard wasn’t about to squander this chance to learn more. The jars all showed a little wear and tear, but quite a few had a sharp notch cut into the cork’s edge. Upon further inspection, all the ones sitting near the powdered brain were notched, as were the dark potions. 

“These will kill me painfully…” he hazarded, gesturing at the notched jars with a careful eye on Geralt’s knife hand. The small nod he received was encouraging so he continued, “And these over here,” he continued, indicating the other set of ingredients, including the half-dried bundles of herbs he’d collected, “will… _not_ kill me?” Geralt gave him a satisfied nod.

“Those are the ones that won’t try to kill you for taking them.” He nodded to the notched group of jars. “The others I’ll collect myself.” 

Apparently he’d done well enough to be awarded the role of “herb-gatherer” in an ongoing capacity. Jaskier spent a moment savoring the glow of warm pride that Geralt was willing to entrust this small but crucial task to him, then replied, “Right… Ingredients that fight back are more your area of expertise, I would think. So all those are bits of things you’ve hunted?” Jaskier asked, unable to resist the macabre urge to squint closer at the notched jars.

“Usually they are. These came from Kaer Morhen’s stores.” Immediately, the image came to his mind of a massive castle dungeon full of shelves and clouded bottles, talons and fangs cluttered around them…. For a moment, the idea was so intriguing the air left his lungs, a physical pang of yearning to see this place pulsing through him. 

“Wait - so you’ve got this… this treasure-trove of mysterious ingredients just tucked away in your pantry? What other secrets have you got hidden away from everyone in that castle of yours?”

Instead of answers, Jaskier received a stare tinged with exasperation, and Geralt’s dry command, “Focus.” Then the witcher launched into a description of each ingredient that had Jaskier scrambling for his notebook, taking down potion names, ingredients, amounts of each ingredient, and more. 

Over the next few days, Geralt brewed one of each of his witcher potions, the golden-eyed gaze watchful between the simmering liquid and Jaskier’s note-taking as he provided concise instruction. Most of them, Geralt made very clear to him over the noxious steam, were only to be made by Geralt himself. In the unlikely event that the witcher was incapacitated again _and_ they were out of a particular potion he needed, though, Jaskier had permission to brew a select few - once Geralt was satisfied with the bard’s ability to do so safely.

Three days later and many miles further south-west, they were seated again by the campfire, an array of nine potions laid out between them. Geralt held up the last in the line, the milky white liquid setting it apart from the other potions that gleamed in the firelit evening like dark gems. 

“And last, but not least,” Jaskier said confidently, “White Honey. Equal portions dwarven spirits and honeysuckle - leaf, not the flower.” 

The nod he received was the witcher equivalent of a “Good job” and Jaskier unabashedly savored the praise as Geralt set the potion back in line, then cast his gaze across their camp till he fixed on something over Jaskier’s shoulder. 

“Fetch me that stick.” 

A look over his shoulder showed woodland, underbrush, and no distinctive sticks that Jaskier’s human eyes could pick out in the twilight. 

“What stick?” Was this Geralt’s blunt way of signalling that lessons were over for tonight, time to tend the fire and go to sleep? “The fire looks fine.” The witcher’s long-suffering sigh was unwarranted, Jaskier felt, but he gave in to the heavy stare, pushing himself to his feet and heading for the closest patch of underbrush. “Have you got your heart set on a certain branch, or shall I surprise you?”

Only the click and tick of vials against each other answered him, and when he came back with the first stick he saw, Geralt calmly accepted it, tossed it into the fire, and gestured for Jaskier to look at the freshly-shuffled potions. 

“On a contract to handle an archespore, I’ve already taken Cat, Thunderbolt, and Petri’s Philter.” Jaskier’s annoyance at the obvious tactic to distract him faded as he sat and considered the scenario set before him. Geralt looked up expectantly and added, “When you inevitably fail to remain at the inn, you find that I’ve been bitten and badly wounded. There were seven archespores instead of one.” 

“Well, that’s what you get for trusting the locals,” Jaskier said wryly as he leaned forward to peer at the potions. “Am I to assume, then, that you’re currently sprawled in heroic anguish amidst a litter of dead foes, hanging all your hopes upon the shining beacon of your closest friend arriving with these little beauties?” He trailed his fingers across the bottles between them, awaiting Geralt’s reply with his most charming smile. 

The witcher’s grim expression remained unchanged as he blinked once, sighed through his nose, and deadpanned, “Archespore venom is acidic.” That rang a vaguely familiar bell, but didn’t quite answer the question, so Jaskier held position, waiting. His reward was a slightly testier, “In the time it’s taken you to ask that question, it would have burned through armor and started on flesh.” 

“Ah. Right. With time then being of the essence, I would…” He scanned his options, now jumbled entirely out of the familiar order he’d created a perfect mnemonic for, which he suspected was Geralt’s intention. “I would start with… this one,” he said, pushing the distinctive milky bottle toward Geralt. White Honey would clear the other potions from a witcher’s body, allowing him to take others without danger of poisoning himself with too many potions. “And there’s the venom, so….” One of the magical-looking golden ones would take care of the venom, but in the rippling firelight, the pair of them looked absolutely identical. “This one and that one,” he finished, sliding a golden bottle and a dark one he was fairly sure was the healing Swallow toward the witcher, before sitting back confidently and lifting his chin to await confirmation. 

Geralt just stared down at his selection, looking like a fisherman who’d just watched his son try to cast a line and instead chucked the whole rod into the river. The humor-tinged disappointment was not a good sign.

“Well?” Jaskier prompted.

“Two out of three.” 

“Oh. That’s not too bad, then. A passing grade, at least….?”

Geralt tilted his head in half-hearted agreement, eyebrows raised in a helpless sort of amusement.

“Perhaps. And I suppose even if there is venom burning through my ribcage, at least I won’t drown.” 

“What? But the Golden Oriole-”

“That’s Whale, not Oriole.” Jaskier flung up his hands in exasperation; true, he’d had a fifty-percent chance of guessing right, but Geralt’s expression was uncomfortably close to patronizing, as if Jaskier should have been able to identify each potion at a glance. 

“And how was I supposed to know when they look _exactly_ alike?” the bard demanded.

Geralt frowned at him, then down at the potions. He took the two golden vials in hand and stared down at them for several long seconds, and Jaskier waited. But Geralt only made an annoyed grunt at the vials in his hands and began putting them away, one by one, and Jaskier sputtered, “You can’t tell them apart either, can you?” 

“I can,” came the terse response. “But if you can’t in this lighting there’s no point in trying. Most monsters prefer the dark. I’ll have to come up with something else.” He finished packing the potions away and tucked the bag with the others by Roach’s saddle, settling once more to stoke the fire, commenting lightly, “Or, I suppose I could find myself a bard with better eyesight.” 

Jaskier snorted as he stood, circling the fire to stretch out on his bedroll before replying, “Good luck with that. Even if you found someone with keener eyes, which I doubt, they would undoubtedly have painfully inferior musical tastes.” 

The low hum from the witcher likely meant he wasn’t really listening anymore, but Jaskier chose to take it as agreement. He laced his fingers behind his head and let his eyes wander through the stars as he continued, “There are some genuinely decadent cities surrounding the Brokilon Forest, though, where you can hardly walk the length of a street without hearing a lyre or flute. Not that you’d find a more charming or talented travel companion there, mind you.” Geralt didn’t bat an eye at the admonishment, but his lips quirked ever so slightly. “But apart from all that, I think you’d be pleasantly surprised by your reception in one of those cities. There are decent people out there, believe it or not. I think they just prefer more temperate weather.”

The witcher didn’t reply, watching the fire with a thoughtful sort of look on his face. He still held one of the vials, turning it over and over in one hand, and Jaskier watched the movements, glad to see the easy, fluid motion of his healed fingers. Never had Geralt’s accelerated healing been on such stark display as this past month, picking up potency with every day after that first terrible night, like a pendulum that had passed its lowest point and begun soaring upward once more. 

Jaskier never wanted to spend a night like that again, felt his heart constrict painfully at the memory even now. The jolting realization that he had somehow dozed off while Geralt fought for his last breaths had summoned such a flood of shame to his soul that Jaskier would willingly have died in that moment as restitution. Now, drawing a long breath as he watched Geralt brood comfortably in the firelight, hair unbloodied and brow pinched in thought, Jaskier knew he simply hadn’t kept his fingers against that elusive pulse firmly enough. At the time, though, with the witcher’s skin so unexpectedly cool under his hand, his heart had already begun to break and mourn, and had dragged him helplessly down with it.

He had barely heard Geralt say his name. He’d felt it more than heard it, the faintest warmth against his throat, and the worst day of his life had turned itself head over heels into the best instead. Geralt’s story hadn’t ended. Their story together hadn’t ended, not yet, and Geralt deserved to choose where the next chapter would take place.

“Where do you want to head next?” he asked, letting a yawn stretch the words out. If nothing else, he could get Geralt thinking, asking himself the same question of where he _wanted_ to go, until Jaskier finally managed to coax it out of him. When no answer was forthcoming, the other man’s eyes still resting on the flickering fire, Jaskier gave a mental shrug, saying, “Surprise me, then,” before settling in for sleep. 

And surprise him Geralt did, though not with their destination. When they made camp the following afternoon, the witcher directed Jaskier to fetch the potions from the saddlebags, and the bard braced himself for another frustrating session. As he set the bottles out, however, his fingertips caught odd points and angles and he frowned at the one in his hand, a dark potion that could have been either Swallow or Cat. Except that along with the warning notch in the cork’s edge, an angular oval eye had been carved neatly into the top, complete with slit pupil like a cat’s, while the other inky potion he picked up next bore the Elder rune for ‘S’, and Jaskier smiled. 

This time, he successfully kept Geralt alive through three different scenarios, and where anyone else would have simply seen a satisfied nod and a wry smile, Jaskier easily saw Geralt’s pride and approval. Jaskier awarded himself a congratulatory extra helping of dinner, Geralt stowed the potions away, and a little while later, as they both rested in the glow of full stomachs and a warm fire, the bard felt emboldened enough to look over at Geralt from his bedroll and ask, “So… given any thought to a destination? Or are we doomed to wander the wilds at random and let the monsters decide for us…?” Geralt didn’t look at him, leaning back comfortably against a tree with his eyes closed, his voice a drowsy hum that lightened slightly with his quirked smile. 

“I thought you liked to ‘wander the wilds’…” 

“Oh, I do,” Jaskier replied immediately, to quash any suggestion that he was unhappy traveling in the White Witcher’s company. “It’s the only way to come face to face with the gritty, glorious reality of adventure so I can weave it into story and song for the people. It’s nice to have a destination sometimes, though. Especially if it’s someplace you like, something you’re looking forward to…?” He let his wheedling tone hang in the air with his question, hoping Geralt was in a benevolent enough mood to humor him. 

Maybe Geralt preferred to wander. That was entirely possible, given that it was apparently how he’d always done things, roaming from one chance encounter and contract to the next. But the introspective look the witcher got when Jaskier asked made him suspect Geralt had a place or two in mind; it was just a matter of nettling him into admitting that to himself. 

Geralt made that sound, between a sigh and a growl, that Jaskier knew was his ‘I know I’m being goaded’ sound, one that usually was followed by an adamant refusal to dish out the details of a story. This time, though, the witcher just asked, “And you want to know what sort of place a witcher would look forward to?” 

Jaskier frowned slightly, leaning up on his elbow to frown at Geralt’s face, but deliberately kept his voice light and conversational.

“I couldn’t care less where ‘a witcher’ wants to go. I’m not traveling with ‘a witcher’. I’m curious where _you_ would choose to go, if you could just… pluck the opportunity out of the air and make it happen. Which you can, though I don’t think you’ve let yourself do it before.” He let that sit between them for a few moments, watching it turn over in the other man’s mind in the minute shifts of the witcher’s brow and jaw, pale in the deepening twilight. Then he tacked on, “So…?” with a lilt that predictably drew those grey eyebrows lower in exasperation again. 

“That’s easier done when you don’t have half the townsfolk thinking you’re devil spawn.” A fair point, though Jaskier didn’t find it quite as amusing as Geralt seemed to; the low flames caught the glimmer of his eyes and glinted off the witcher’s teeth in his crooked smile. “A bard can go anywhere and he’s sure to find some welcome.” Geralt cast him a sidelong glance. “Not so easy for my kind, unless there’s a monster involved.”

“Not when you’re among such open-minded folk as we artists,” Jaskier said, gesturing at himself elegantly. “And, not to mention, that now word has spread, all sorts of people are beginning to turn a friendlier eye on the hero whose deeds allow them to sleep without fear. These grimy clusters of huts simply don’t have the advantage of a bustling economy and port of trade to broaden their minds.”

Geralt considered that for a long moment and Jaskier could almost see the map of the continent being scoured by the wolf-eyed gaze until, without a word, Geralt rose, doused the fire and began to lay out his bedroll. Jaskier only had time to take in a breath, more wheedling and prying right on the tip of his tongue before Geralt spoke.

“The coast.” 

Jaskier sat right up at that unexpected answer, cheering, “There you go, Geralt! Bravo! I knew you had someplace in mind, you rogue. We are literally _spoiled_ for choice along the coast, just a ribbon of welcoming arms and open city gates all the way to Cintra herself. I was born on the coast, in Kerack, did you know? That’s where my family’s estate sits, mere miles from Cidaris, which is the absolute heart of arts and culture on the continent! King Ethain himself is an old friend, in fact. I’m sure he’d be happy to host us - honored, in fact, and-”

“We’ll go to Kerack, then,” came the willing reply, with a smirk thrown briefly over the witcher’s shoulder.

“Wh- Really?” Jaskier could hardly contain his excitement. Not only was Cidaris barely a day’s travel from there, but the idea of turning up unexpectedly in his old stomping grounds with the renowned Geralt of Rivia traveling alongside him was a tantalizing thought. That would certainly shut several mouths that had continued to criticize his choice of career. Geralt didn’t answer, stretching out on his bedroll and shrugging a blanket up over his shoulders, and Jaskier asked, “Have you ever been to Kerack before? What’s caught your mind’s eye there in particular?”

From the shadowy lump came a monotone grumble, “There’s an item I have that needs returning.” 

For the briefest of moments, Jaskier ran through their baggage in his mind. Then Geralt’s smirk and enthusiastic tone belatedly registered in his mind, revealing his statement for the insolent quip it had actually been. Geralt couldn’t see the narrow glare Jaskier fixed on the back of his head, but he could probably feel it, and delivering it was a matter of principle, either way.

“I hope you recognize how incredibly lucky you are,” he said, pitching his voice so that Geralt couldn’t possibly ignore him, “to have me as your friend. Because anybody else would have taken deeply personal offense to your implication that I am in any way replaceable or a temporary fixture in your life. I am not a _rental_ , Geralt, nor am I going to dishonor our friendship by pretending you actually meant something so hurtful.” He sniffed, loudly and pointedly, as he tugged his own blanket snugly to his chin. “My heart, by nature, is open and giving, as befits a poet. And when we get to the coast, you’ll see what I mean about the people there. They’ll love you too, if you don’t run them off with your growls and glares first.”

In the starlit quiet, Jaskier just barely heard the amused huff of breath from his dark-shrouded companion, and allowed himself a small smile of his own. The witcher deserved to walk through at least one busy marketplace without a single person spitting at him or warding themselves just because he happened to glance their way. Amid the lively bustle of a coastal city’s streets, a witcher would certainly earn curious looks, but no worse, and Jaskier suspected that Geralt would find himself far more a celebrity than an outcast. And who better to act as guide than a man who had already climbed and conquered the giddy heights of popularity? Geralt had put an incredible amount of trust in him over the past month, and Jaskier fully intended to deliver on that trust by providing a summer tour of the most welcoming cities the continent had to offer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all SO MUCH for riding this roller-coaster of whump with us! A bonus chapter of Tips and Trivia has been awarded to you all with our thanks!
> 
> This epilogue leads directly into our next fic, in which Geralt is “not” going to a festival and he will “not” enjoy himself there (heavy emphasis on those quotation marks. The witcher resists, but he’s gonna take a vacation whether he likes it or not). We figured we owed them a proper vacation after what they went through here. ;)


	12. Bonus Features!

  * **The full rundown of Geralt’s injuries**



If any of you lovely readers are medical professionals, please feel free to let us know how we did! I know we have at least one EMT among us! We went in depth and researched for this to try and find a method of whump that would bring a Witcher close enough to death for the drama, without actually causing irreparable damage. Fancy magic potions help a lot and witcher stamina and healing cover the rest, but the hardest part was stopping Geralt from busting loose and taking Tomas down… A couple times, we had to stop and marvel at how very adept Geralt was at tactics and escape. We had to stage out the entire fight scene (when Geralt first breaks loose from the post) to figure out how the heck these villagers survived having Geralt coming at them with ANY sort of weapon. In total, Geralt suffered from:

  * Major concussion from that first strike with the hammer, causing nausea, ringing ears, headache, dizziness, vision disturbances, sensitivity to light, and difficulty concentrating
  * Tomas’s strikes to Geralt’s hands broke two fingers on his left hand (minor breaks/fractures, not in need of setting but still hurts like heck) and one severe break to his right index finger. We had to add these injuries in when we realized Aard or Igni could easily knock tools loose or burn ropes and Geralt would be loose again in no time. The hard part was figuring out how long a broken bone could go without setting before you’d lose range of motion permanently. Info was sparse on that point. It sounds like bones will start to heal within days. I’d suggest not leaving your broken bones for nearly as long as Geralt had to here, but we figured if most of the fingers were in the right places and healing normally, witcher mutation healing could handle restoring range of motion to the one finger despite it being left long enough to start to heal. 
  * The stab wound was an interesting point only because Lark and I have a tendency (and by that I mean it happens _every single time_ ) to imagine scenes in mirror image. If I think Jask is on Geralt’s left, she has him on Geralt’s right in her mind. As a result, we got all the way to the barn before realizing we’d imagined the stab wound in opposite legs. Inability to prove our point one way or another led us to remove the directions entirely. So… let us know! Which leg was Geralt stabbed in for you? (The right answer is his right, but don’t tell Lark I told you that. She swears Tomas went to his left side). 
  * The beatings were generally only able to produce bruising since Geralt is a tough cookie. It’s only when Tomas brings out the poker that we start getting broken ribs. Two broken in the first beating and another when Tomas hears about the boy Geralt supposedly “lured in.” 
  * The first beating with the poker also caused internal bleeding and/or swelling. After much research, we determined Geralt had what is called “Hemothorax” or internal bleeding where blood collects between the chest wall and the lungs. This causes pain (duh), heaviness in the chest, anxiety, trouble breathing, rapid breathing, rapid pulse, cold sweats, pale skin, and a high fever (so Geralt had a fever from two sources, both the internal bleeding and the infected stab wound). Here’s where our medical knowledge failed us a bit and we had to go with logical reasoning. 
  * The lungs are high up in the chest cavity. Hypothetically, sitting the person up would cause the bleeding to pool lower in the chest cavity and make breathing easier (a couple sites mentioned this as well). Lying the person down again would cause the accumulating blood to shift and surround the lungs again, causing the pressure and coughing Geralt experienced when Jaskier went to set the traps. I can’t find the source now, but I swear I’ve read that internal bleeding in the chest cavity can cause a dry cough. I figured that was because the body would feel the pressure on the lungs and, since pressure in lungs is usually caused by something IN the lungs, the body would attempt to relieve that pressure by coughing. It unfortunately doesn’t help much and especially doesn’t help Geralt feel any better since coughing with broken ribs _hurts_. Add to this the fact that Geralt hadn’t had a proper drink in a week and one dry cough due to pressure on the lungs triggers multiple dry coughs due to (surprise surprise!) a very dry throat. 
  * Speaking of which, Geralt was also suffering from lack of food, water, and sleep. The human body can survive without food for a surprisingly long time, but water is far more essential. We gave Geralt a slightly stronger system than the average human (who can survive about three days with no water at all). I figured Geralt could probably go from 5-7 days without any water. Geralt was able to get a little water from the rain, which boosted him through the rest of the days at the post, but honestly, internal bleeding, vomiting, and general damage to the body makes a person need even more food and water to sustain the healing process. This, I think, is where we stretched Geralt’s abilities the furthest. 



  * **Geralt’s healing process**



By the time Jaskier has the first potions available, the internal bleeding has caused blood-loss symptoms of confusion, drowsiness, and anxiety/unease. That first potion dose begins its work immediately, but it's got a lot to handle so it takes a little while to really get going. Geralt could still have died after those first two potions only because the pressure around his lungs had reached a dangerous level. Jaskier doubly saved his life by sitting him upright so he could breathe while the potion took effect. 

When Geralt speaks, asking Jaskier where he’ll go once this is all over, he’s actually started the climb back to good health. He’s just so exhausted from a week of deprivation and little to no sleep that neither of them realize it at the time. Geralt figures he’s feeling slightly better right before the end and he’s not gonna question it. (We only realized this after writing the chapter’s first draft. This was one of those bonus moments that wasn’t planned but works out perfectly!). Once he’s had a good night’s sleep, the healing process begins to gain speed, helped along by more potions (and, according to the witcher wiki where we got the entirety of our potion knowledge, Swallow also helps with nausea which allows Geralt to eat and drink more too). 

  * **Our headcanon for Tomas**



We debated including rumors the boys would hear about Tomas’s fate, but figured it worked out fine to leave that up to your imaginations. Our personal headcanon is that the cumulative damage Tomas received was enough to keep him in recovery for weeks. Jaskier slashed his upper arm (no more hammering for a while!), stabbed him in the leg (no walkin’ neither), AND gave him one heck of a major concussion (no more thinkin’ mean thoughts for a while, bro). We figure Tomas eventually recovered, but nowhere near in time to catch up to our boys or cause them any further trouble. He still works at his forge but with a major blow to his pride. He has no more centipedes to fend off which gives him less of a sense of purpose and authority in the village. Because Tomas left before Geralt recovered, he hopes/figures the witcher died of his injuries. As for Jaskier, Tomas is convinced the bard was mind-controlled and doesn’t really hold any hard feelings toward him for the injuries, though he is frustrated and feels like he failed in his mission to free the innocent bard from the mean old witcher. 

  
  


  * **Deleted Concepts/Scenes!**



  * At first, the plan was to have the whole village be 100% in on the capture and torture of the witcher. They even had a platform and post in the middle of their square for restraining and torturing criminals. In this version, Tomas was just the ringleader of the gang who liked to come by and mess with Geralt nightly after they got drunk. Tomas even had throwing knives he’d clumsily use. Not accurate enough when drunk to cause life threatening damage, but adding to the cumulative damage Geralt would receive. 
  * The “Don’t panic” line was in there from the beginning but several of Geralt’s other lines were composed on the spot (after much rewatching of clips and gathering of pics). Several of Geralt’s lines were also significantly shortened. Similar to Henry Cavill’s replacing lines with a “Hmm” and leaving Joey Batey to fill in the lost spaces, our Geralt would craft nice long sentences in Draft One that we realized could be easily said with just a few words. Geralt prefers to save breath and speak plainly, so we let him cut out some of his more lengthy portions of dialogue in favor of shorter sentences. Jaskier was often the opposite, getting the bare bones of the dialogue down and then embellishing and sprucing it up in Draft Two! 
  * The hardest parts of dialogue for me were the ones where I could hear Geralt’s voice perfectly… but the line included some very crass language… Lark and I are of the opinion that, while it may be in character for Geralt to cuss up a storm, there are clever ways of avoiding the actual words and we’d rather not up the rating of a story for language that we try to avoid using in our own lives. “He cursed,” “Jaskier swore venomously,” “A curse slipped past his lips,” are all examples of ways to leave the actual cursing up to the reader’s imagination. 
  * Originally, Jaskier was going to kill Tomas in the fight. Tomas’s other friends would flee as soon as their boss was down, but Jask was going to go full feral bard and stab the jerk. Until we realized that might make Jask a little more traumatized… and we’d have to deal with the dead body….



  * **Bonus Trivia!**



  * Tomas had been digging pits or setting snares to catch the centipedes, but he was only really able to catch the younger, less experienced insects. These things can grow to twelve feet long according to the witcher wiki bestiary and there’s no way Tomas could handle one that big without getting bitten. He probably had something similar to a bear trap that would pin or crush the creature and he could then approach a little more safely. 
  * Potion ingredients differ between Witcher games, according to the wiki. We went with the most clear cut version for Swallow and assumed the “Drowner brain” was probably not going to be kept fresh and would be easier to mix if it was in powder form. That’s just our decision, no clue how Game Geralt handles his potion making, but it’s probably not pretty.
  * The other ingredients Jaskier sees in the jars are actual ingredients from the wiki. Endrega embryos and ghoul’s blood. Fun stuff to choke down when you’re in the middle of a fight. Also our research leads us to believe that at the Cintran feast, when Geralt drinks a potion and then shoots Aard at Duny and Pavetta, it is either Thunderbolt (increases attack power in the games) or Petri’s Philter (increases sign strength in the game). 



  
  


  * **Writer’s Tips!**



  * **Pictures** are your friends! We have entire folders of pictures (and gifs on our phones) of characters in various expressions/situations. HappyJask, SadJask, AngryBard, SmugWitcher, pics, pics, and more pics! Then we’ll split up our computer screens: one half is the document we’re working on, the other is a collage of images so we can glance over and get a picture more clear in our heads for how our guys should look! (Tech Tip: Go to a picture in your folder and right click. The drop down menu that appears should have an option toward the top that says “preview.” Click that to have the image opened in a separate, size-adjustable window! I usually have at least four of those open as a collage!) 
  * Hand in hand with the pictures comes **rewatching clips**. As time goes by, you’ll find your characters veering off from the original simply because your memory of the scenes isn’t as clear. To get a character’s voice clear in your head, rewatch scenes! This helps a lot with dialogue. If you have the character’s voice clear in your head, you can figure out which phrases sound like them and which just sound awkward or out of character in their voice.
  * **Use Music!** If you want a mood to come across clearly, listen to a song that evokes that mood before/while writing. Some good ones for this fic were “Tears of an Angel” (RyanDan) and “Brother” (Kodaline). 
  * **Fight scenes: Block ‘em out.** Use visual tools to be sure YOU know how the fight goes, blow-by-blow. The reader may not need all the details, but if you can see this fight as clearly as possible, you can describe it easier without losing track of a thug or having characters teleport around obstacles you forgot were there. Geralt just hangin’ out in the middle of the barn for a full fight scene caused some trouble, but we made it through without stepping on him or hitting him with anything, thank goodness. 
  * **Multiple Drafts: Draft One is your Stupid Draft.** This is just to get the basic blocking on the page. Who moved where? Who said what (generally)? What actions occurred? Dialogue can be placeholder to be spruced up in a later draft, whole sections can be skipped if you’re getting stuck on them and have “Geralt skims 3-4 days at the post” until you’re ready to go back to it! Stupid Draft is allowed to be as stupid as it has to be. Use cliches, shaky metaphors, cumbersome sentences, whatever it takes to get the basic feel of the scene across.   
Draft Two is where the real work comes in! Go back through from the top and start filling in those places you skipped before. Rewatch some scenes and go back over dialogue to make sure it suits the character’s voices/personalities.   
Do as many run throughs as it takes to clear up all those skipped or placeholder spots and then do one final read-through, watching for typos, switching around word choice to make it flow better, and (if you’re us) marking which words are WAY too overused. We’ve found that words like Steady, Expression, Shaky, and Quiet are some of the more overused ones in this fic. The thesaurus is your friend. Use it liberally.
  * **Use all your senses** : Draft One usually covers the major senses well, but to make the story more real and immersive, go back over your story and find places where you can add in the subtler senses. We say Geralt’s hair is dirty (sight), what does that feel like (touch)? Instead of general terms like “uncomfortable” or “painful,” you can use more specific phrases like where exactly the aches and pains are, how they feel (like a hammer in your head? A hot poker in your side? Sharp pain? Dull pain? Pounding or stinging? etc…). Don’t forget that your characters can smell and taste too! And they don’t just hear what’s said to _them_. Geralt might be able to hear things further away as well, like the music from the tavern or the birds outside the barn. But a character’s senses don’t always have to tell the truth either! Jaskier thought he saw far more damage to Geralt’s hands when he got his first look at the post because of the shadows cast by the lantern and the bruising. Geralt hears someone coming and thinks it’s Jaskier returning, until other senses prove otherwise. (Geralt is especially fun for senses since his are enhanced and he can actually sniff out some stuff Jaskier couldn’t, like the scent of smoke and ash on Tomas’s clothing as he approached the barn). 
  * **Make a Wishlist** : of things you want the story to include, from moments of introspection and narration to scraps of dialogue. Some of ours for this fic were Jaskier sharing his jacket/cloak at the post, Tomas taking Geralt’s medallion and showing it to Jaskier at the inn, Geralt prompting Jaskier to use his sword, and Geralt’s attempt to comfort his buddy with a hug.
  * **Have an ending in mind** : To avoid your fic growing out of control, have an ending scene in mind when you start. We wanted to have Geralt teach Jaskier how to make his potions as a sign of trust and faith in the bard as well as adding a little humor in at the end. Having an end in mind (even a rough draft stupid version of the sort of scene you want) keeps you from writing yourself into a corner.




End file.
